&f- 


v   .^-,K 


Out  of  the 

Ashes 


Gertrude  Curtman 


Out  of  the 

Ashes 


A  POSSIBLE  SOLUTION  TO 
THE  SOCIAL  PROBLEM  OF 
DIVORCE 

By 

HARNEY   RENNOLDS 


THE  C,  M.  CLARK 
PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
of  BOSTON,  MASS.    J906 


Copyright,  1906 
THE  C.    M.    CLARK    PUBLISHING    CO., 

Boston,  Mass. 


Entered  at 
Stationer's  Hall,  London. 

Dramatic  and  all  other 
RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  in  June,  1906. 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES 

CHAPTER  I 

"  And  unto  the  married  I  command,  yet  not  I,  but  the 
Lord,  Let  not  the  wife  depart  from  her  husband : 

"  But  and  if  she  depart,  let  her  remain  unmarried,  or 
be  reconciled  to  her  husband:  and  let  not  the  husband 
put  away  his  wife." — 1  Cor.  vii. 

"  OUR  city  is  behind  none  in  the  recognition  she 
gives  the  distinguished  pianist  we  have  with 
us,"  said  Gertrude  Curtman,  as  she  sat  with 
her  husband  and  aunt  at  the  dinner  table. 
'  The  compliments  paid  him  in  both  the  morn- 
ing and  evening  papers  are  enough  to  turn  his 
head.  Suppose,  Morrison,  that  you  take 
Aunt  Katherine  and  me  to  hear  him  to- 
night? " 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  about  me,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Bramlet.  "  I  can  hear  him  when  I  go 
home — he'll  likely  be  in  New  Orleans  during 
the  season." 


2137879 


2  OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

"  Well,  I  can't  go  to-night  anyway,"  an- 
swered Curtman.  "  It  would  be  impossible 
now  to  get  seats,  and  besides,  I  have  an  en- 
gagement that  I  must  keep — to  meet  some 
business  men  at  the  hotel."  As  he  spoke,  he 
busied  himself  with  the  quail  on  his  plate. 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  said 
Gertrude.  "  We  can  go  some  other  evening ; 
he's  here  several,  I  believe." 

Morrison  gave  more  than  usual  care  to  his 
dress  that  night,  lingered  longer  before  the 
mirror  than  was  his  wont,  then  hastened  off 
to  keep  his  engagement.  He  had  scarcely 
closed  the  door  behind  him,  before  Willie  Gil- 
bert came  in  from  his  home  next  door,  bring- 
ing, with  his  mother's  compliments,  tickets  for 
that  night's  concert.  Mr.  Gilbert  had  pur- 
chased them  the  day  before,  but  they  had 
found  at  this  late  hour  that  they  could  not 
use  them.  Gertrude  and  the  Gilberts  were 
long-time  friends,  making  frequent  inter- 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES  3 

change  of  like  courtesies,  and  the  tickets  were 
gladly  accepted. 

While  Gertrude  and  Mrs.  Bramlet  were 
making  some  changes  in  their  dress,  other 
hasty  preparations  were  being  made  for  an 
evening  out.  Eliza  Jane,  the  cook,  was  stir- 
ring around  in  her  department  with  more  than 
usual  briskness,  getting  things  in  ship-shape 
before  her  departure. 

Eliza  Jane  was  a  privileged  character  in  the 
household,  having  been,  as  she  expressed  it, 
"  born  in  the  f  amb'ly,"  and  entitled,  she  be- 
lieved, to  her  share  in  its  emoluments  and 
honors,  bound  under  all  circumstances  to 
loyalty  and  faithfulness,  and  to  give,  when  oc- 
casion so  required,  her  sympathy  and  tears — 
sometimes  her  advice. 

To-night  she  was  utilizing  Didama,  her 
brother  Jerry's  wife,  who  had  stopped  by  en 
route  to  a  social  function.  It  was  Eliza  Jane's 
settled  principle  to  make  of  use  in  her  domestic 


4  OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

economy  whatever  material  might  come  to 
hand,  and  Didama  was  at  present  the  material 
that  had  come  to  hand. 

There  was  on  the  tapis  this  evening  a  "  pay 
party,"  or  "  soceybul,"  being  given  in  Frater- 
nity Hall  by  the  chapter  to  which  they  both  be- 
longed, to  attend  which,  Eliza  Jane  had  bent 
her  energies  since  early  morn. 

"  Gim'me  a  liff ,  Didamy,  an'  I'll  go  wid  you 
to  de  soceybul." 

"  Course  I'll  give  you  a  liff,  Lizerjane,"  re- 
plied Didama.  "Doan  kno'  wharr  my  man- 
ner's gone;  I  never  thot  off'ern  when  I  see  you 
in  sich  hurry " 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  kerrin*  fer  yer  manners;  you 
jest  tie  that  apr'n  roun'  yer  wase,  ef  til  reach. 
Tite  fit?  I  thot  so.  Yes,  I  wanter  see  how 
Mrs.  Cunnin'ham  runnin'  dat  soceybul — ef 
she  kno'  how.  They  been  goin'  on  four  nites 
now,  two  las'  week  an'  two  this  week ;  but  that 
ain't  no  sign  they  goin'  on  rite" 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES  5 

"  I  ain't  bin,  so  I  can't  tell,"  replied  Did- 
ama,  briskly,  "  but  I  mistrust  ef  she  do  kno' 
how.  I  doan  think  she  got  hedd  enuf  fer 
that." 

"  Hedd  enuf?  Yer  doan  want  her  to  have 
no  more  hedd'n  she's  got,  duz  you?  She's  got 
the  big  hedd  now." 

"  It's  big  enuf  on  the  outside,  but  I  doan 
kno'  how  big  'tis  in  the  inside." 

Here  they  both  stopped  and  enjoyed  heart- 
ily a  laugh  at  their  friend's  expense. 

'*  Well,  Mrs.  Cunnin'ham  think  she  kno' 
how  to  run  it,"  resumed  Eliza  Jane. 

"  Mrs.  Cunnin'ham  think  she  kno'  how  to 
run  ev'ything,"  replied  Didama ;  "  she  jest 
soon'ez  not  try  to  drive  Blueblood  down  the 
bullyvard." 

"  I'd  hate  to  be  in  the  road  when  sHe  tryin* 
drive  Blueblood;  can't  nobody  drive  him  but 
Miss'er  Cu'tman  and  C'lumbus." 

"  I  b'lieve  you  1   Jerre  say  he  wouldn't  try 


6  OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

to  drive  that  boss  ef  Mr.  Cu'tman  wuz  to  give 
him  to  him." 

"  I  doan  blame  him.  I  wouldn't  nuther. 
But  Miss'er  Cu'tman  an'  Miss  Gertrue  serten 
do  look  putty  flyin'  'long  behine  him,  Blue- 
blood  a-steppin'  'long  like  he  wuz  too  proud  to 
tech  the  grown,  an'  his  hedd  up  in  the  arr." 

"  Nother  thing,  Lizerjane,"  said  Didama, 
harking  back  to  the  party,  "  I  wants  to  see  ef 
they's  got  my  name  on  that  turke  I  sent  'em. 
I  doan  want  'em  to  get  them  turkes  mixed  up 
an'  put  my  name  on  some  ole  haff-dun  gob'ler, 
whut  look  like  it  wuz  cooked  in  de  moonlite 
stidier  in  a  stove.  Mine  wuz  as  brown  as  a 
doornut  an'  full  o'  good  stuffin',  an'  gravy  all 
roun'  it." 

"  Hush,  nigger,  you  make  my  mouff  water. 
When  I  gits  tharr  I'm  suttenly  goin'  to  eat 
some  uv  your  turke.  You  sho'  do  kno'  how  to 
cook  a  turke.  Well,"  she  continued,  "  I  didn't 
give  'em  nuthin*  this  time  ceptin'  a  cake.  Miss 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES  7 

Gertrue  tole  me,  jest  go  on  an  make  me  one 
'long  with  the  one  I  wuz  makin'  fur  home  here ; 
one  uv  them  marble  spice  cakes.  It's  the 
onlyest  cake  Miss'er  Cu'tman  eats,  an*  Miss 
Gertrue,  you  kno',  allers  wants  me  to  cook 
whut  he  likes." 

"  Miss  Gertrue  is  suttenly  a  clever  'oman. 
It  looks  like  a  pity  dat  en'ybody  be  mean  to 
her/' 

"  I  rekin  it  would.  I  duz  my  bes*  fur  her. 
I  cook  the  bes'  I  kin,  an'  looks  after  things  an' 
doan  waste  nuthin'.  I  tries  to  be  es  good  to 
her  es  she  is  to  me." 

"  Oh,  tharr  ain't  nuthin'  matter  with  you, 
Lizerjane;  you  does  yer  part.  Ev'ybody 
know  that." 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  dur- 
ing which  there  was  an  increased  rattling  of 
cups  and  saucers,  as  the  women  hastened 
through  their  task,  Eliza  Jane  spurred  on  by 
the  recurring  contemplation  of  the  toothsome 


8  OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

turkey,  and  Didama  by  an  eagerness  to  place 
those  labels  where  they  belonged  on  the  do- 
nations ! 

But  Didama  had  been  carrying  along,  dur- 
ing the  pause,  an  unbroken  train  of  thought. 

"  Say,  Lizerjane,  does  that  Mrs.  Landray 
come  'bout  heyr  much? " 

"No;  I  ain't  seen  her  'bout  heyr  fer  long 
time." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  uv  it.  I  doan  like  that 
'oman's  ways." 

"  I  never  did  like  the  way  she  look.  You 
kno',  Didamy,  we  niggers  kin  tell  jest  by  look- 
in'  at  people  whether  dey's  disrespectable  er 
not:  we  kin  tell  a  heap  quicker'n  white  folks." 

"  Of  course  we  kin.  An'  what  business  she 
got  settin'  out  on  her  porch  a-talkin'  to  gen'l- 
men  when  her  pore  old  husben's  sick,  off  to 
hisself.  Of  course  I  doan  kno'  nuthin'  agin 
her,  an'  fur  be  it  f rum  me  to  make  up  a  lie  to 
tell  on  her.  I  ain't  that  kine;  but  when  I  pass 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  9 

tharr  uv  nights  an'  see  her  a-laffin'  an'  talkin' 
with  other  people's  husbens  I  think  she  better 
be  tendin'  to  her  own." 

"  You  suttenly  got  dat  idee  right." 
"  It's  jest  like  Jerre  say  tho';  he  say  they 
ain't  marryin'  fur  better  or  worse  these  days, 
that  it's  all  fer  better — that  they  marry  fer 
better  or  better.  He  say  ef  a  man  gits  sick  or 
ole,  or  eny  kine  uv  worse  cum  long,  the  mar- 
ryin' busts  up." 

"  Brur  Jerre's  right,"  laughed  Eliza  Jane. 
'  Yes,"  continued  Didama,  "  uv  nights  as 
I  go  pas'  tharr  I  always  slows  up  to  see  whut's 
goin'  on,  an'  tharr  she  is  a-chattin'  away  like 
a  young  ladey  with  her  beaux.     All  uv  em 
laffin'  an'  talkin'  an'  drinkin'  lem'nade." 
"Lem'nade!    I  bet  it's  champoo'." 
"  Maybe  'tiz  champoo — I  never  thot  'bout 
that.  Wimen  like  her  jest  as  lief  drink  cham- 
poo as  not.  Yes,"  she  continued  after  her  re- 
turn from  the  butler's  pantry,  where  she  had 


10          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

deposited  the  silver  she  had  been  brightening, 
"  ef  I  wuz  ter  tell  you  the  names  uv  some  folks 
I  see  tharr  you  wouldn't  b'lieve  me." 

:<  Who  you  see,  Didamy?  " 

"  I  doan  kno'  bout  callin'  names.  Jerre 
done  teach  me  to  be  very  partick'ler  'bout 
that ;  he  say  ef  you  tell  enything  doan  tell  the 
names  long  with  it,  an'  ef  you  tell  the  names 
doan  tell  nuthin'  'bout  em." 

"  That  iz  fust  rate  way  to  do  ginner'ly,  but 
when  you  tell  me  enything  it's  same  as  throw- 
in'  somethin'  in  a  well.  You  never  will  heyr 
'bout  it  no  mo'." 

Didama  walked  over  to  where  Eliza  Jane 
was  standing,  and  after  glancing  toward  the 
door,  to  assure  herself  no  third  party  had  en- 
tered, leaned  over  and  whispered  a  name  in 
her  ear. 

"Didamy!"  exclaimed  Eliza  Jane,  "Is 
that  a  fac'?  My!  My!  an'  Miss  Gertrue  do 
love  that  man  so!  Pore  Miss  Gertrue — no 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          11 

wonder  she  look  porely  an*  bin  grievin*  so!    I 
spec'  somebody  gone  an*  tole  her." 

"  It  warn't  me;  ef  she  never  foun*  it  out  till 
I  tole  her  she'd  never  kno'." 


CHAPTER  II 

"  Like  dumb  beast  branded  by  an  iron  white 

With  heat,  she  turned  in  blind  and  helpless  flight, 

But  then  remembered,  and  with  piteous  face  came  back. 

Since  then  the  world  has  nothing  missed 
In  her,  in  voice  or  smile.     But  she " 

IT  was  a  large  and  fashionable  audience  that 
had  gathered  in  the  theater,  and  Mrs.  Bramlet 
and  Mrs.  Curtman,  who  arrived  late,  had 
barely  time  to  settle  themselves  in  their  seats 
before  the  appearance  on  the  stage  of  the  dis- 
tinguished artist. 

Their  seats  were  in  an  inconspicuous  part 
of  the  building,  in  the  rear,  under  the  balcony. 
"•  But  they  are  very  good  for  a  concert,"  Ger- 
trude remarked  to  her  aunt;  "we  can  hear  well 
enough,  and  we  do  not  care  so  much  to  see." 

"  Or  to  be  seen,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Bramlet, 

"  as  I'm  your  escort.     You  know  you  would 

12 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          13 

not  object  to  a  more  conspicuous  place  if  you 
were  in  full  dress  and  your  husband  with  you." 

Mrs.  Curtman  laughed  assent.  'You  are 
good  at  guessing,  Aunt  Katherine.  I  do  like 
seats  nearer  the  front  when  Morrison  is  with 
me — he's  such  an  elegant  escort,  and  looks  so 
handsome  in  evening  dress!  I  wish  he  could 
have  come  with  us  to-night." 

But  Morrison  was  there,  handsome  and  ele- 
gant, as  she  had  said — there  with  Mrs.  Lan- 
dray. 

This  Gertrude  discovered  shortly  after  the 
rendering  of  the  first  number.  They,  too, 
were  in  inconspicuous  seats,  not  far  in  front 
of  those  occupied  by  her  and  her  aunt. 

The  concert  now,  to  her,  was  over,  the  ar- 
tist's melodies  all  gone,  and  he  himself  no  more 
than  a  wire-worked  puppet  banging  on  the 
keys  before  him. 

The  blood  came  hot  to  her  cheeks  and  brow, 
only  to  recede  and  leave  them  white  and  rigid. 


14          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

Her  lips  moved  as  if  she  would  speak,  but  the 
words  that  came  to  them  she  held  back,  con- 
centrating all  senses  in  her  eyes,  and  these 
were  fixed  upon  her  husband  and  his  partner. 
Their  slightest  turn  or  gesture  was  not  un- 
noted, as  they,  too,  unmindful  of  the  artist's 
skill,  sat  rapt  in  each  other,  oblivious  of  her 
and  the  world  around  them. 

But  Gertrude's  eyes  at  last  refused  the  task 
imposed — the  lights  grew  dim;  the  house 
swam  before  her,  a  jumbled  mass  of  glare  and 
gloom;  the  music  became  a  far-off,  smothered 
discord,  and  with  it  all  there  came  a  f  aintness 
at  her  heart. 

"  I  am  ill,  Aunt  Katherine,"  she  said  at 
length;  "you  must  take  me  home." 

Mrs.  Bramlet  was  not  surprised;  she,  too, 
had  seen  the  pantomime  and  wondered  that 
Gertrude  could  stay  so  long. 

"Yes,  at  the  ending  of  this  number,"  she 
replied;  and  utilizing  the  confusion  of  ap- 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  15 

plause  that  followed  on  its  close,  they  covered 
with  it  their  retreat. 

The  homeward  drive  was  not  what  Mrs. 
Bramlet  had  expected.  She  had  already  on 
her  lips  many  a  word  in  which  to  voice  her 
anger,  hut  waited  wisely  for  license  from  her 
niece,  which  license  was  not  granted.  Gertrude 
said  nothing,  and  Mrs.  Bramlet  could  but 
honor  such  silence  with  her  own.  On  reaching 
home  she  went  with  Gertrude  to  the  library. 

"  I  will  retire  early,  to-night,"  she  said  mov- 
ing toward  the  door.  She  glanced  over  her 
shoulder  at  Gertrude's  sad,  unhappy  face. 
"  Ah,  child,"  she  said  as  she  climbed  the  stairs 
"  your  friends  thought  this — you  thought  it, 
too,  but  have  bravely  suffered  on  in  silence." 

As  Gertrude  sat  awaiting  Curtman's  com- 
ing, all  the  innuendoes  she  had  ignored,  the  sus- 
picions she  had  scorned,  came  trooping  back 
from  their  hiding,  making  more  keen  her  pres- 
ent pain. 


16          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

Especially  the  occurrence  of  a  month  ago 
returned  with  insistent  vividness — she  lived  it 
over  now  in  all  its  cruel  clearness:  Morrison 
sat  in  the  library,  reading  some  letters  he  had 
brought  unopened  from  his  business  house; 
she  following,  loitered  at  the  bookcase  at  his 
back,  reading,  and  in  the  stillness  he  forgot  her 
presence.  She  walked  to  the  chair  in  which 
he  was  sitting;  the  light  fell  full  on  the  open 
letter  in  his  hand. 

'  This  is  a  woman's  writing,  Morrison,"  she 
said,  laying  her  hand  on  the  letter.  "  Whose 
is  it?" 

He  rose  and  caught  it  from  her  with  self- 
condemning  haste,  his  face  crimson  from 
throat  to  brow. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean,  Morrison?  Why 
cannot  I  read  the  letter?  I  am  your  wife! " 

She  recalled  now  how  fiercely  he  said,  "  I 
will  not  be  treated  as  an  idiot — watched  as  if 
I  were  a  child!  " 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          17 

"  I  have  not  watched  you,  as  if  you  were  a 
child,  nor  treated  you  as  if  you  were  an  idiot, 
nor  have  I  set  an  espionage  upon  you.  It 
would  have  been  beneath  me — it  would  have 
been  treachery! " 

"  Treachery  or  not,  it  shall  not  be,"  he  said, 
and  tearing  the  letter  into  fragments  laid  it  on 
the  fire.  .  .  . 

With  her  face  buried  in  her  hands,  she  was 
still  sitting,  when  her  husband  came  home, 
where  Mrs.  Bramlet  left  her. 

She  tried  to  be  calm.  She  had  said  over  and 
over  to  herself  what  she  intended  saying  to 
him  when  he  came.  But  in  doing  this,  she 
had  presupposed  his  replies;  they  were  by  no 
means  the  ones  she  had  expected,  and  so  the  in- 
terview got  out  of  the  groove  she  had  planned. 
She  was  a  woman  of  amiable  nature,  but 
strength  of  character  as  well ;  and  though  of  a 
disposition  that  ignored  trifles,  had  no  lack  of 
anger  when  she  had  cause. 


18          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

The  interview  was  stormy;  but  in  thinking 
of  it  afterward,  she  could  not  recall  a  word  she 
was  not  justified  in  saying. 

The  following  morning,  Morrison,  break- 
fasting long  before  his  usual  hour,  went  im- 
mediately to  his  business  house. 

"  I  am  going  home  with  you,  Aunt  Kather- 
ine,  for  a  while,"  Gertrude  said — "  my — heart 
— is — broken :  I  must  go  somewhere  and  think 
— creep  off  like  poor  wounded  things  do  when 
they— die." 

"  Indeed  you  shall  go  home  with  me,"  Mrs. 
Bramlet  replied,  clasping  her  to  her  heart — 
"  indeed  you  shall — I  don't  want  you  to  stay 
another  day  under  the  roof  with  that  vil— 

"  Oh !  no,  Aunt  Katherine,"  she  interrupted, 
putting  out  her  hand  with  a  deprecating  ges- 
ture— "  don't  say  that — I  can't  hear  him 
abused! " 

Curtman  looked  very  unapproachable,  and 
was  altogether  silent  at  luncheon,  almost  ig- 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES          19 

noring  the  necessary  courtesies  of  the  table. 
His  wife  was  not  present. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  Gertrude  home  with 
me,"  Mrs.  Bramlet  said  as  they  rose  from  the 
table.  "  I  think  the  journey  will  do  her  good 
— and  anyway,  she  will  be  better  off  in  New 
Orleans  than — here."  .  .  . 

The  sunny  air  and  change  of  scene  would 
doubtless  have  been  good  for  Gertrude  had 
she  been  ill.  But  she  was  not  ill  in  body,  only 
numbed  in  brain  and  wounded  at  heart. 

Among  her  needs  she  did  not  reckon  south- 
ern suns  and  balmy  air,  but  yielding  to  the 
pleading  of  her  aunt,  went  with  her  to  New 
Orleans,  the  quaint  old  city  that  had  been  her 
home  once,  and  held  for  her  now  many  a 
dream-like  memory  of  her  childhood. 

Mrs.  Bramlet  in  an  unobtrusive  way  did  all 
she  could  for  Gertrude's  pleasure.  She  took 
her  on  long  drives  through  the  suburbs,  and  on 
boat  rides  on  the  lake;  they  explored  the  old 


20          OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

Creole  sections,  and  together  ransacked  curio 
shops.  But  she  was  not  insistent  on  any  spe- 
cial method,  nor  did  she  hamper  Gertrude  in 
choosing  her  diversions.  She  encouraged  her 
in  all  healthful  occupation  of  her  time  and 
thoughts;  her  interest  in  the  mission  schools; 
the  children's  hospital,  and  helpful  visits  to 
the  poor.  And  then,  too,  she  let  her  stay 
much  by  herself  and  think,  wisely  forbearing 
to  weary  her  with  questions  or  to  pry  into  her 
plans. 

And  so  smoothly  was  life  moving  on  in  this 
settled  grove,  that  she  had  begun  to  think  it 
was  all  coming  out  right,  or  rather  as  she 
wished,  that  Gertrude  was  learning  to  forget; 
ignoring  hope,  that  more  than  stimulant,  that 
iron  tonic  for  the  fainting  heart ;  for  Gertrude, 
wherever  she  went,  bore  about  with  her  the 
hope  that  she  had  not  lost  Morrison,  that  he 
would  still  come  back  and — somehow  their 
trouble  would  be  healed. 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          21 

How  little  was  she  then  prepared  for  that 
which  one  day  reached  her,  the  formal,  legal 
document  of  divorce. 

She  read  them  over,  the  cruel  words,  again 
and  again — to  herself  and  then  aloud,  to  be 
sure  they  were  there  before  her,  and  were  not 
a  figment  of  her  feverish  brain. 

She  was  dazed  and  speechless  for  a  while. 
Her  face  was  white  with  suffering,  and  her 
eyes  full  of  anguish.  But  there  came  a  look 
into  them  that  had  never  been  there  before. 

"  I  shall  not  contest  it,"  she  said,  "  he  shall 
have  his  way.  .  .  .  It  is  his  deed — and  it 
is  done." 

"The  villain!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Bramlet — 
"the  villain!" 

Gertrude  again  put  out  her  hand  with  the 
deprecating  gesture;  but  Mrs.  Bramlet  did 
not  see  fit  to  regard  it,  and  kept  on  with  the 
tirade  that  had  long  been  pent  up  in  her 
bosom. 


22          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

But  the  tirade  was  lost  on  Gertrude,  who 
had  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  given 
way  to  a  burst  of  tears.  .  .  . 

The  following  day  they  were  both  calmer. 

"  I  want  you  to  live  with  me,  Gertrude," 
said  Mrs.  Bramlet ;  "  you  know  that  this  is 
no  invitation  from  my  lips.  I  want  you 
always — here  in  my  home;  if  I  had  but  the 
barest  pittance,  I  would  gladly  share  it  with 

you." 

"  I  believe  all  this,  Aunt  Katherine,  every 
word  that  you  utter;  and  if  I  were  without 
means  would  accept  your  help,  would  accept 
your  provision  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  it  is 
offered.  As  it  is,  though,  I  am  blessed  with 
more  than  enough  for  the  needs  of  living,  and 
a  comfortable  home  besides " 

'  Yes,  I'm  glad  of  that — that  the  home  is 
yours,  yours  by  inheritance  and  not  the  gift 
of  that — Curtman.  But,"  she  continued  after 
a  pause,  "  I  would  make  him  pay  alimony. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  23 

I  would  wring  from  him  every  dollar  I 
could." 

Gertrude  turned  her  face  toward  her  aunt. 
She  tried  to  keep  out  of  it  the  scorn  she  felt; 
she  did  keep  it  out  of  her  voice. 

"  No,  I  will  not  ask,  or  accept  money  from 
him,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  you  may  be  right,"  Mrs.  Bramlet 
assented ;  "  that  may  be  best.  It  is  best,"  she 
suddenly  agreed,  in  the  hasty  change  that 
sometimes  comes  as  a  phase  of  anger.  '  You 
are  right;  let  there  be  no  communication  be- 
tween you  of  any  kind.  Accept  nothing  from 
him,  nothing.  Let  there  be  no  reminders  of 
him — none;  not  even  a  check  with  his  name, 
in  your  bank  book. 

"  But,  Gertrude/'  she  resumed  after  a  little 
silence,  "  I  want  you  to  stay  with  me ;  think 
better  of  it,  child,  and  live  with  me." 

"  No,  I  must  go  back  to  my  home,"  Ger- 
trude answered  unwaveringly,  "  my  associates 


24          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

and  business  interests  are  all  there,  and  my 
house  is  full  of  sweet  memories." 

"  But  what  will  you  do,  my  child?  Will  you 
not  die  of  sheer  loneliness?  What  will  fill 
your  long  dreary  days?  How  will  you  occupy 
yourself? " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  Aunt,  I'm  in  the  dark 
now.  I  must  wait  for  light  to  be  thrown  on 
my  path.  It  will  come ;  our  '  heavenly  Father ' 
will  not  leave  me  to  grope ;  a  Christian  woman 
must  have  her  work  to  do — it  is  awaiting  me 
somewhere,  and  I  trust  Him  to  give  it  to  me — 
and  strength  to  do  it.  I  must  fill  out  my  days 
in  usefulness,  nay  cheerf ulness ;  I  must  not 
press  to  other  lips  the  cup  that  is  mine  and 
mine  only.  The  Rubicon  is  passed  with  me, 
and  with  my  back  to  it,  I  must  journey  on — 
as  I  am  led." 

Gertrude's  exalted  sentiments  were  out  of 
Mrs.  Bramlet's  reach  at  present;  she  might, 
doubtless  would,  in  time,  come  to  accept  them, 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  25 

but  not  to-day;  so  after  a  moment's  pause, 
kept  on  in  the  groove  in  which  she  had  be- 
gun: 

"  Oh,  Gertrude,  this  is  something  terrible. 
How  could  it  have  come  about?  The  brute! 
If  you  had  been  ugly  or  even  plain  I  might 
understand  how  a  man  without  principle 
could  have  been  bewildered,  ensnared  by  an 
adventuress,  but  you  are  beautiful.  This  is 
not  the  silly  bragging  of  a  doting  aunt;  you 
know  it  yourself — you  must  know  it;  your 
mirror  and  the  world  both  tell  you  so.  And 
besides  you  are  clever,  no  cleverer  woman 
lives." 

Gertrude  heard  very  little  of  what  her  aunt 
was  saying — only  now  and  then  a  word 
drifted  into  her  ears.  She  had  just  now  but 
one  sense,  the  sense  of  sight,  as  sitting  by  her 
open  trunk,  and  looking  down  into  one  of  its 
compartments,  she  saw  among  her  jewelry  a 
miniature  of  Morrison,  his  handsome  face 


26          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

turned  smilingly  towards  hers.  It  was  a  good 
likeness  of  him  when  taken ;  it  was  a  good  one 
now,  and  she  felt  a  keen  throb  of  pain  in  her 
heart  as  she  returned  the  steady  look  of  the 
eyes,  and  looked  upon  the  full,  well-curved  lips 
that  seemed,  even  yet,  to  be  saying  something 
tender  and  loving  to  her.  This  painting  had 
been  made  in  Berlin,  at  no  small  cost,  and  its 
setting  was  in  keeping  with  the  beauty  of  the 
face,  a  rim  of  gold  studded  with  pearls.  It 
was  his  present  to  her  on  the  fifth  anniversary 
of  their  marriage. 

He  had  planned  it  as  a  surprise,  having 
heard  her  express  a  desire  for  a  likeness  of  him 
that  would  do  him  justice,  a  painting  by  the 
finest  of  artists  on  the  finest  of  ivory.  And 
in  those  days  Morrison  was  not  a  man  of 
wealth — to  gratify  this  desire  of  hers  meant 
the  curtailing  of  some  expense  considered  es- 
sential, or  the  leaving  unpurchased  something 
of  consequence.  This  extravagance  meant 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          27 

that  Morrison  must  wear  his  overcoat  two 
winters,  after  it  was  out  of  style  and  looked 
the  worse  for  wear.  He  laughingly  said  this 
to  Gertrude  when  he  gave  it.  "  Now,  Ger- 
trude," he  said,  "you  can  only  wear  this  on 
chilly  days — it's  my  overcoat" 

All  this  came  back  as  if  it  had  been  but  yes- 
terday, as  she  sat  looking  down  upon  the 
lineaments,  living  again  her  happy  wif ehood. 

"Oh!  how  can  I  live  without  him?"  she 
said — but  not  aloud;  "no  mortal  shall  hear  this 
from  my  lips.  God  only  knows  this  great 
query  of  my  heart,  and  He  alone  can  answer  1 " 


CHAPTER   III 

"Go  lady!  lean  to  the  night-guitar, 
And  drop  a  smile  to  the  bringer; 
Then  smile  as  sweetly,  when  he  is  far, 
At  the  voice  of  an  indoor  singer; 

But  dare  not  call  it  loving !  " 

ME.  and  Mrs.  Landray  had,  some  weeks  pre- 
vious to  Gertrude's  return,  moved  to  New 
York ;  the  Joplins,  whose  house  they  had  occu- 
pied, were  back  from  Europe,  and  they  could 
find  no  other  establishment  suited — on  the  same 
terms — to  their  needs.  Besides,  Mrs.  Lan- 
dray had  on  hand  a  scheme  that  needed  New 
York  for  its  working,  though  not  her  hus- 
band's sanction.  She  had  not  confided  it  to 
him. 

And  then,  too,  she  sighed  for  new  environ- 
ments— she  realized  she  had  been  "  dropped," 
and  found  the  bottom  of  the  social  ladder 

28 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  29 

tame  after  the  exhilarations  of  the  upper 
rungs. 

But  Curtman  did  not  follow — not  at  once. 
The  complications  in  his  business  took  and 
kept  him  far  a-field.  The  Curtman  Company 
was  just  now  making  changes  in  its  time-worn 
customs,  the  chief  of  which  was  one  of  Curt- 
man's  innovating;  and  he  could  not  calmly  see 
his  enterprise  fall  through  for  lack  of  minister- 
ing to  its  instant  need,  which  need  was  now 
his  instant  presence.  His  business  reputation 
was  at  stake,  the  loss  of  which  would  have  hurt 
him  more,  far  more,  than  loss  of  money.  He 
held  in  high  esteem  his  business  talents,  and  it 
must  be  owned  results  had  heretofore  con- 
firmed his  judgment. 

He  had  clamored  for  a  wider  field  of  action, 
and  now  that  it  had  been  given,  he  must  work 
it  to  the  uttermost. 

Many  of  the  directors  had  opposed  the  en- 
largement of  the  business  when  it  was  first 


30          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

suggested,  but  as  Curtman  was  practically  its 
owner,  he  was  not  silenced,  but  carried  out  his 
views,  despite  their  protest. 

"  Ours  is  already  one  of  the  largest  coffee 
houses  in  the  West,  and  our  dividends  satis- 
factory," argued  the  conservatives;  "why  turn 
from  the  beaten  track,  as  it  is  one  of  pros- 
perity, to  an  untried  route?  " 

'  Why  not  launch  out  and  accomplish 
more? "  asked  Curtman.  "  Why  not  have 
plantations  of  our  own — now  by  purchase, 
later  on  by  planting,  and  have  this  house  here 
the  market  of  our  own  fields?" 

His  arguments  and  figures  both  were 
plausible,  nor  were  they  made  of  reveries  and 
fancies,  or  founded  on  imaginary  data.  His 
investigations  had  been  personal  and  thorough. 
Besides  a  journey  thither  he  had  written  many 
a  letter,  gathered  and  compiled  all  the  statis- 
tics and  reports  he  could  find,  and  interviewed 
every  man  he  came  across  who  had  ever  been 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  31 

to  Costa  Rica,  for  it  was  there  he  planned  to 
operate  the  business. 

Gertrude  had  been  interested  in  the  enter- 
prise from  its  inception,  and  in  her  way  did 
all  she  could  for  its  promotion.  She  had 
saved  every  bit  of  information  she  came  across, 
every  article  on  coffee  growing,  or  life  in  that 
part  of  the  world,  to  read  to  Morrison  at  night 
as  they  sat  together  by  their  lamp;  had  made 
many  a  little  memorandum  and  calculation  for 
him,  and  taken  care  of  all  his  statistics  and  cor- 
respondence on  the  subject. 

She  was  eminently  a  womanly  woman,  car- 
ing little  for  business  outside  her  sphere,  nor 
was  it  Curtman's  wont  to  bring  cares  home. 
He  shut  his  door  upon  them  when  he  left  his 
counting-house ;  he  had  enough  of  them  there, 
he  said,  to  all  of  which  Gertrude  agreed. 

But  this  enterprise  was  his  exception;  he 
brought  this  home,  and  Gertrude  gave  it  ready 
hearing  and  hearty  interest,  which  interest 


32          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

Curtman  found  more  than  a  passing  stmulant 
— indeed  a  constant  tonic. 

"And  whenever  you  go  you  will  take  me 
with  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  will  never  go  without  you,"  he  replied. 

"  It  would  be  so  new  and  beautiful,"  she 
dreamed — the  banana  fields,  majestic  palms, 
the  strange,  bright  birds,  the  tangled  growths 
that  riot  in  the  tropics,  and  flashing  in  between 
glimpses  of  the  Caribbean  dotted  with  its 
fruit-laden  craft.  The  dusky  natives,  too, 
employed  her  fancy.  She  saw  them  in  the  glis- 
tening fields,  outlined  on  the  southern  sky,  or 
singing  in  the  star-lit  night  about  their  cabin 
doors.  She  had  read  much  of  them,  both  the 
good  and  bad,  and  in  her  dreaming  planned 
for  them  many  benefactions;  for  interwoven 
with  all  wishes  for  her  own,  were  schemes  for 
the  happiness  of  others. 

Curtman  knew  there  was  no  one  in  the  firm 
able  to  deal  with  the  complications  that  had 


OUT   OF   THE    ASHES  33 

arisen  in  this  far-off  business,  yet  in  its 
infancy,  except  himself;  moreover  that  he 
could  not  reach  results  by  letter  or  by  proxy, 
only  in  person ;  and  so,  much  as  he  would  have 
liked  to  go  to  New  York,  found  himself  shortly 
after  instead  in  Costa  Rica.  And,  although 
he  had  not  expected  to  learn  there  what  he 
wished,  or  make  the  arrangements  he  should 
find  necessary,  in  a  day  or  week,  yet  he  was 
surprised  to  find  the  weeks  lengthening  into 
months  before  he  could  return. 

When  he  did  return  he  made  only  a  few 
days'  stay,  then  hastened  East.  .  .  . 

How  many  changes  can  be  brought  about — 
how  much  of  the  unexpected  come  to  pass  in 
a  few  short  months !  How  like  the  groupings 
of  a  freshly  turned  kaleidoscope  do  unlooked- 
for  events  close  about  lives,  which  to  the  out- 
side world  have  seemed  a  continuous  chain  of 
eventless  days.  Although  Mrs.  Landray's  life 
had  never  been  a  continuous  chain  of  eventless 


34          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

days,  the  changes  that  came  to  pass  in  it,  within 
a  few  weeks'  time,  were  surprising,  even  to 
those  who  knew  her  best — or  thought  they  did. 

Curtman  had  heard  of  Mr.  Landray's  death 
and  knew  that  Mrs.  Landray,  in  consequence, 
had  not  found  it  necessary  to  obtain  the  di- 
vorce she  was  about  to  crave,  but  he  was  by  no 
means  prepared  for  the  other  changes  he 
found — changes  in  the  environment  of  Mrs. 
Landray,  and  in  Mrs.  Landray  herself. 

She  did  not  know  that  he  was  in  New  York. 
He  had  not  communicated  with  her  by  letter, 
message,  or  in  any  way  heralded  his  coming. 
His  call  was  unannounced. 

He  found  her  domiciled  in  one  of  the  fash- 
ionable quarters  of  the  metropolis.  As  he  as- 
cended the  steps  he  could  but  observe  the  ele- 
gant appearance  of  the  house  and  its  surround- 
ings. He  looked  closely  at  the  number  again, 
to  assure  himself  that  he  was  at  the  right  place. 
His  ring  was  answered  by  a  man  in  livery,  who 


OUT  OF   THE    ASHES  35 

extended  a  silver  waiter  for  his  card,  and  after 
ushering  him  into  the  drawing-room  withdrew. 

Though  Curtman's  mind  was  not  at  present 
analytic,  he  could  but  note  the  look  of  luxury 
about  him — rich-toned  rugs,  pictures,  vases, 
oriental  drapings,  and  over  it  all  the  brilliant 
glare  of  electric  burners  in  unstinted  numbers. 
All  this  Curtman  saw,  and  fell  to  wondering. 

In  a  short  while  Mrs.  Landray  swept  into 
the  room  in  full  evening  dress — a  dress  of 
pure  white,  elegant  in  the  simplicity  of  the 
soft,  rich  crepe  with  its  tasteful  accessories. 
A  dainty  white  opera  cloak  was  on  her  arm, 
and  in  one  of  her  glove-cased  hands  she  held  a 
large  loose  bouquet  of  white  roses.  From  a 
long  string  of  pearls  around  her  neck,  de- 
pended a  lorgnette,  much  be-gemmed. 

"How  grand  you  look!"  exclaimed  Curt- 
man, rising  and  meeting  her  with  outstretched 
hands. 

"  You  must  have  heard  I  was  coming,  for 


36          OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

all  I  kept  it  so  secret,"  he  said,  scanning 
with  admiration  her  beautiful  toilet — "  surely 
there's  no  other  man  you  would  begown  your- 
self so  handsomely  to  see? " 

She  laughed,  but  the  laugh  had  not  spon- 
taneity, and  with  nervous  haste  began  a  con- 
versation. But  words  and  voice  were  both 
constrained. 

But  this  Curtman  had  scarcely  time  to  note 
before  she  was  again  composed,  and  like  a 
well-skilled  driver  with  a  restless  steed,  had 
got  the  conversation  well  in  hand,  and  down  to 
natural  paces. 

'  Yes,"  she  said,  "  my  dress  is  altogether 
white,  like  a  sweet  girl  graduate's,  as  you  say, 
but  it's  my  mourning — pure  white  is  consid- 
ered mourning." 

'  The  best  kind  of  mourning  for  people  who 
don't  mourn?"  Morrison  laughed. 

"  Oh,  well — Mr.  Landray  was  kind." 

"  And  blind." 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          37 

Mrs.  Landray  smiled.  *  You  may  consider 
me  overdressed,"  she  continued,  "but  I  am 
going  to  the  opera  to-night.  I  was  just  draw- 
ing on  my  gloves  when  your  card  was  handed 
me,  and  so  came  on  down." 

"  That  suits  me — I  will  go  to  the  opera  with 
you.  You  shall  not  go  alone." 

"  No,  I  have  company,"  Mrs.  Landray 
hastened  to  explain — "  Mr.  Varnon  is  my  es- 
cort, Horace  Varnon.  You  have  heard  of  him 
maybe? " 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed — a  Wall  Street  plunger. 
The  speculating  world  knows  him  well,"  re- 
plied Curtman.  "  And  so  that  accounts  for  all 
this,"  he  continued,  looking  around  the  richly 
furnished  room. 

'  We  are  engaged." 

"  Engaged !    I  thought — I  understood " 

"  That  is  just  it,  Mr.  Curtman ;  it  was  an 
understanding  with  you — nothing  more.  This 
man  has  asked  me  to  marry  him.  He  has 


38          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

money,  and  I  know  how  to  spend  it.  Money 
is  what  I  need ;  it  will  bring  out,  and  show  off 
the  best  that  is  in  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,  I  know,  a  thousand 
virtues.  They  need  but  the  setting  of  gold  to 
make  them  shine !  " 

"  I  am  not  flattering  myself,  merely  stating 
a  fact,"  she  continued,  ignoring  his  interrup- 
tion, "  that  the  air  of  luxury  is  my  native  ele- 
ment, a  part  of  me  as  it  were ;  laces  and  gems 
and  the  accessories  of  wealth  are  not  only 
becoming  to  me,  I  am  becoming  to  them.  My 
tailor,  the  finest  in  New  York,  tells  his  cus- 
tomers that  no  one  shows  to  such  good  ad- 
vantage his  work  as  I.  Oh,  I  have  no  doubt, 
using  my  opportunities  as  I  know  how,  but 
I  shall  in  time,  and  not  a  long  time  either,  hold 
an  assured  place  in  society." 

"  Oh,  I  see — you  have  social  aspirations ! " 

"  Of  course  I  have.  What  woman  has  not? 
It  enrages  me,  that  women  whose  equal  I  am 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  39 

in  education,  travel,  and  cleverness,  and  women 
no  better  than  I — you  need  not  smile,  I  mean 
what  I  say,  no  better  than  I — should  ride  the 
topmost  wave,  while  I  lie  only  one  among  the 
many  pebbles  on  the  beach. 

"  But,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause,  "  you 
need  not  feel  hard  toward  me.  After  all  I 
have  done  you  a  service — I  was  the  means  of 
your  getting  rid  of  a  woman  you  had  ceased 
to  love.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me,  you  might 
have  been  bored  with  your  wife's  company  the 
rest  of  your  life." 

Her  words  stunned  him  like  a  sudden  and 
unlocked  for  blow.  How  dared  she  say  a 
thing  like  that  of  Gertrude!  and  yet  how 
dared  he  contradict  it,  or  say  aught  in  her 
defense — what  right  had  he?  They  shocked 
him — he  drew  back  from  her  as  she  uttered 
them  like  one  who  had  received,  and  feared  the 
repetition  of  a  thrust. 

He  sat  in  silence,  looking  down  on  the  floor, 


40          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

hearing  not  a  word  of  Mrs.  Landray's  contin- 
ued remarks.  For  though  of  a  different 
nature,  and  on  other  subjects,  they  had  no 
power  now  to  gain  his  ear.  In  the  midst  of 
them  Mr.  Varnon  was  announced. 

Mrs.  Landray  arose  and  met  him  with  effu- 
sive welcome — then  turning  towards  her  guest, 
who  had  himself  arisen,  introduced  them. 

"  Mr.  Varnon,"  she  said,  "  this  is  Mr.  Curt- 
man  of  Chicago,  an  old  companion  of  my  hus- 
band's, and  his  wife — is  my  most  intimate 
friend." 

With  such  assurances  as  these,  Mr.  Varnon 
offered  his  hand,  and  was  pleased  to  be 
very  cordial  in  his  acknowledgment  of  the 
introduction.  He  made  immediate  and  com- 
plimentary comment  on  the  vastness  and  enter- 
prise of  the  city  from  which  Mr.  Curtman 
hailed;  inquired  how  long  he  would  favor  New 
York  with  his  presence;  invited  him  to  call 
at  his  office;  and  assured  him  it  would  give 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          41 

him  great  pleasure  to  contribute  to  the  enjoy- 
ment of,  or  in  any  way  serve,  the  husband  of 
Mrs.  Landray's  most  intimate  friend! 

Both  he  and  Mrs.  Landray,  as  they  arose  to 
leave,  expressed  regret  that  the  lateness  of  the 
hour  should  curtail  an  interview  so  delightful. 
They  all  left  the  house  together,  and  after 
some  farewell  courtesies  at  the  carriage  door, 
parted,  they  for  their  drive  to  the  opera,  Mor- 
rison for  a  long,  long  tramp  of  square  after 
square,  in  what  direction  he  neither  knew  nor 
cared.  He  had  need  for  a  long  walk,  he  had 
much  over  which  to  think,  and  he  felt  that  now, 
enclosed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  room,  this  rest- 
lessness of  a  caged  tiger  would  increase  to 
madness. 

Could  he  be  dreaming?  he  wondered.  If  so, 
when  would  the  night  and  dream  be  gone? 
Oh,  that  he  would  awake  and  find  it  had  been 
a  horrible  nightmare  that  left  him  with  his 
slumber!  He  could  not  explain — how  could 


42  OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

he  explain  what  he  in  no  wise  understood? — 
that  he  cared  so  little  about  losing  this  woman's 
love.  In  fact,  he  owned  to  a  feeling  of  relief 
that  she  had  passed  out  of  his  existence;  and 
began  wondering  if  this  infatuation — for  as 
such  he  now  regarded  it — had  not  been  an  in- 
sanity, if  it  were  not  possible  for  a  man  to  be 
insane  and  not  know  it ! 

"  But  the  past  is  now  forever  past,"  he  said 
to  himself;  "regrets  are  unavailing;  what  is 
done  is  done.  As  for  Gertrude,  she  is  a  part 
of  the  past — lost  to  me,  eliminated  from  my 
existence — no  thought  or  memory  of  her  shall 
dwell  in  my  mind." 

A  man's  unhappiness — he  argued — comes 
largely  from  his  harking  back  to  his  troubles, 
bringing  them  himself  from  the  hiding  to 
which  they  had  been  consigned,  and  in  which 
they  would  have  stayed  if  left  alone.  He  often 
turned  his  key  on  a  drawer  of  papers — it 
stayed  locked;  why  not  close  the  door  of 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  43 

thought  on  irrevocables  and  let  them  no  more 
see  the  light  of  day !  "  Mine  shall  be  banished, 
and  forever,"  he  said;  "  I  so  will  it.  .  .  . 
There  must  be  a  world  of  pleasure  for  a  man 
with  wealth  and  health — a  man  not  yet  five- 
and- thirty,  and  that  world  shall  be  mine!" 

He  recalled  two  friends  at  home  who  would 
help  him  be  happy  after  the  manner  he  was 
planning — George  Kantrell  and  Lewis  Bever- 
ley.  Kantrall  was  a  gay  Lothario  about  his 
age.  Gertrude  had  always  objected  to  him  as 
an  associate  of  her  husband,  not  that  she  feared 
any  misleading  influence,  but  his  reputation 
was  of  the  kind  obnoxious  to  her.  Beverley 
was  a  fellow  whose  company  was  always  in 
demand,  agreeable,  entertaining,  and  good- 
looking  ;  a  married  man,  and  father ;  but  it  was 
said  the  obligations  and  responsibilities  of  life 
were  very  lightly  worn  by  him. 

He  would  cultivate  these  men  now,  he  prom- 
ised himself;  they  should  be  his  running-mates. 


CHAPTER   IV 

"  The  world  is   full  of  beaten  roads, 
But  yet  so  slippery  withal." 

IN  the  midst  of  this  reverie,  someone  touched 
his  arm: 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  pass  a  friend  in  his 
own  home?  How  dare  you  walk  along  my 
streets  without  noticing  me!  " 

It  was  Granville  Collins.  Curtman  held  out 
his  hand. 

"I'm  certainly  glad  to  meet  you,  Granville," 
he  said,  and  truthfully;  for  he  was  heartily 
tired  of  himself  and  his  own  thoughts. 

'''  What  are  you  doing  with  yourself  to- 
night, if  I  may  be  so  bold  as  to  inquire? " 

"  Nothing." 

'  Well,  you  can  do  that  any  other  night  as 
well,  but  you  cannot  every  night  run  upon 

44 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  45 

such  a  rara  avis  as  I  to  flock  with.  We  are  of 
a  feather  now,  you  know!  " 

Mr.  Collins  laughed  aloud  at  his  own  wit, 
but  Morrison  failed  to  see  it ;  and  ignoring  his 
merriment,  said  he  would  be  in  the  city  for 
the  night  only — his  business  would  not  detain 
him  longer. 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  club,  then.  I  am  on 
my  way  there  now.  It's  worth  seeing  in  the 
first  place,  and  the  rendezvous  for  a  lot  of  my 
cronies  worth  meeting  in  the  second.  I  sus- 
pect you  will  go  home  and  straightway  fash- 
ion yours  after  it.  We  had  a  grand  reception 
there  a  few  evenings  since.  I  suppose  you 
read  about  it.  You  don't  care  for  receptions? 
Well,  it  just  suits,  then;  there's  nothing  espe- 
cial on  the  programme  for  the  evening." 

Morrison  accepted,  and  after  a  little  walk 
they  arrived  at  the  club,  where  he  was  intro- 
duced to  quite  a  number  of  the  "  birds  of  a 
feather."  After  some  short,  desultory  con- 


46  OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

versation,  they  seated  themselves  around  a  card 
table. 

Morrison  did  not  care  for  cards  especially, 
but  to-night  he  began  the  game  with  much  in- 
terest and  in  nervous  haste.  But  the  nervous- 
ness was  soon  gone  and  the  interest  flagged. 
He  drank  more  than  the  others — a  great  deal 
more — was  sometimes  winner,  sometimes  loser, 
without  caring  which  of  the  two  he  was.  The 
amounts  they  played  for  were  very  small,  he 
said,  and  suggested  bigger  stakes.  '  You 
ought  to  try  to  interest  a  visitor  from  a  dis- 
tance; I'm  from — a  little  town  out  West  they 
call — Chicago.  Maybe,  though,  you  think  I 
haven't  got  the  money.  I'll  bet  I  could  buy 
the  whole  lot  of  you — Collins  here  thrown  in 
for  good  measure." 

He  was  a  man  of  natural  fairness  of  face 
and  dignity  of  manner,  but  to-night  he  was 
flushed,  and  loud  in  his  conversation,  laughed 
vociferously  at  his  own  and  companions'  silly 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          47 

remarks,  and  even  essayed  a  song.  But 
through  it  all  there  ran  the  consciousness,  that 
the  wine  and  cards  had  brought  neither  hap- 
piness nor  oblivion. 

He  dropped  ashes  and  tobacco  on  his  broad 
expanse  of  shirt  front ;  his  hair  was  disheveled, 
and  his  hat — for  he  had  risen  to  leave — was 
poised  on  his  head  at  a  ridiculous  angle.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  himself  in  the  opposite 
mirror,  and  through  his  maudlin  brain  there 
came  a  recognition  of  his  condition,  and  he  felt 
nettled  that  he  had  played  the  buffoon  for  a 
lot  of  men  who  would  not  the  next  day  recog- 
nize him  on  the  street. 

His  gait  was  uncertain,  but  holding  to  the 
back  of  a  chair  he  steadied  himself  sufficiently 
to  make  some  parting  remarks,  which  were  an 
odd  mixture  of  urbanity  and  rudeness. 

"  Ah,  well — gentlemen,"  he  said  slowly — 
"  you  have  been  very  kind — an' — an* — amus- 
ing." Looking  up  to  the  ceiling  and  around 


48  OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

the  room  deliberately — for  he  was  necessarily 
deliberate — on  its  luxurious  appointments  he 
continued : 

"  And — you  have  a  handsome — gambling 
house — for  gentlemen." 

"  This  is  no  gambling  house  for  gentlemen," 
they  answered  in  concert. 

"  Ah — yes,  I  see — just  a — house  where  gen- 
tlemen— gamble! " 

;<  Where  are  you  taking  me,  Collins?"  he 
asked  quite  helplessly  when  they  reached  the 
street. 

;<  To  my  apartments — you  must  stay  with 
me  to-night." 

;<  The  best  trump  yet,  old  boy — you  are," 
he  said,  and  resigned  himself  to  Collins' 
care. 

The  following  morning  Morrison  was  still 
asleep  when  Granville  breakfasted,  in  fact, 
had  not  yet  awakened  when  he  went  down  into 
the  city,  which  he  did  a  little  later  than  usual, 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  49 

leaving  orders,  however,  with  his  servants  to 
give  Mr.  Curtman  the  best  of  care  while  he  was 
away. 

On  return  to  luncheon,  he  found  his  friend 
altogether  his  former  self,  fair  of  face,  well- 
groomed,  and  reading  the  morning  paper  as 
calmly  as  if  nothing  of  a  disagreeable  nature 
had  happened  the  night  previous,  or  had  ever 
happened. 

They  exchanged  pleasant  salutations,  talked 
of  the  weather  and  the  news  of  the  day.  There 
was  some  interesting  information  concerning 
the  market  which  they  discussed  at  length,  as 
well  as  the  recent  political  moves  which  they 
believed  would  have  much  effect  on  the  com- 
ing elections. 

Collins  was  certainly  glad  to  find  his  friend 
so  fully  restored  mentally  and  physically,  yet 
he  could  but  think  it  strange  that  he  made  no 
allusion  to  the  escapade  of  the  night  before. 
He  would  not  demand  it,  but  he  certainly 


50          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

thought  an  apology  due  him  from  Curtman, 
for  having  made  of  himself  a  drunken  rowdy, 
in  the  presence  of  the  gentlemen  to  whom  he 
had  introduced  him. 

But  their  tete-a-tete  was  finished  and  the 
luncheon  dispatched  with  never  a  reference  to 
the  objectionable  episode. 

This  silence  argued  ill  for  Curtman's  habits, 
Collins  concluded ;  it  looked  much  as  if  drunk- 
enness was  nothing  new  to  him;  on  the  con- 
trary, something  in  which  he  was  so  hardened 
that  he  never  thought  of  referring  to  it.  He 
almost  determined  it  was  his  duty  to  warn  him, 
but  refrained — Curtman  was  not  easily  ap- 
proached concerning  his  faults. 

"  Come,  go  with  me  to  the  station,  Gran- 
ville,"  he  said  when  the  carriage  was  an- 
nounced. 

Granville  consented,  and  after  a  short  drive 
they  found  themselves  among  the  passengers 
that  were  walking  back  and  forth  in  front  of 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  51 

the  gate  awaiting  their  trains.  Curtman's 
train  was  about  due. 

"  I  owe  you  an  apology,  Granville,"  he  said, 
turning  and  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  "and 
I  now  and  here  make  it.  I  disgraced  you  last 
night,  and  disgraced  myself.  Your  friends 
and  you,  too,  may  think  I  am  a  drunkard.  I  am 
far  from  what  I  should  be,  old  friend — a  fool, 
maybe,  but  not  a  drunken  one,  not  a  sot.  I 
was  particularly  distraught  last  night — and 
tried  the  bowl.  But  one  experience  has  been 
enough — it  shall  never  occur  again." 

After  he  was  on  his  train  his  thoughts  were 
much  along  the  same  line.  He  had  never  had 
much  patience  with  drunkenness,  and  this  de- 
bauch left  him  with  less  now  than  ever,  and  he 
recalled,  with  a  regret  he  had  never  felt  before, 
the  fact  that  Kantrell  had  long  been  addicted 
to  the  excessive  use  of  liquor,  not  continuously, 
but  in  sprees. 

He  thought  of  this  a  great  deal,  and  set  for 


52          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

himself  the  task  of  arguing  him  out  of  a  course 
so  ruinous. 

The  journey  to  Chicago  was  long  and  tedi- 
ous, but  he  succeeded  quite  as  well  as  he  had 
expected,  in  keeping  out  harassing  thoughts; 
and  that  drawer  of  his  memory  labeled  Ger- 
trude he  kept  fairly  well  closed.  There  was 
diversion  in  talking  with  the  few  acquaintances 
aboard,  and  then,  too,  he  consumed  a  good  deal 
of  time  in  sketching  out  some  future  exploits 
with  Kantrell  and  Beverley,  halfway  promis- 
ing himself  a  trip  abroad  with  them  next  sum- 
mer. He  had  not  seen  them  since  his  return 
from  Costa  Rica.  He  had  been  too  busy  the 
few  days  he  was  in  Chicago  to  hunt  up  friends. 

With  this  picture  in  his  mind  of  them,  hale 
and  vigorous  as  himself,  what  was  his  surprise, 
when  the  Chicago  papers  were  brought  aboard 
the  train,  to  read  the  announcement  of  Kan- 
trell's  death! 

Could  it  be  possible — had  not  his  eyes  de- 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          53 

ceived  him !  Surely,  it  meant  some  other  Kan- 
trell.  He  read  it  again;  the  name  in  full  was 
given  and  the  number  of  the  residence,  which 
he  recognized  as  the  home  of  Kantrell's 
mother,  with  whom  he  was  living.  There  was 
no  mistake;  it  was  indeed  his  Kantrell.  More- 
over, in  a  more  extended  notice,  in  one  of  the 
other  papers,  the  funeral  arrangements  were 
given,  and  he,  Morrison  Curtman,  was  named 
among  the  pallbearers! 

This  was,  indeed,  a  sudden  reversal  of  his 
thoughts — a  complete  change  of  his  plans.  In- 
stead of  the  trip  he  had  thought  to  take  with 
him  abroad,  he  was  to  help  lay  him  in  his  grave 
— instead  of  the  handsome  souvenir  he  had 
already,  in  his  mind,  purchased  for  him,  he  was 
to  lay  flowers  on  his  pall! 

It  was  a  sad  home-coming  to  him.  This 
trouble  accentuated  his  others;  like  a  strong 
searchlight  suddenly  turned  on,  it  seemed  to 
bring  them  out  in  their  grewsome  hideousness. 


54  OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

He  felt  that  he  had  entered  his  penumbra,  that 
a  thick  cloud  had  settled  on  him  that  would 
not  lift  at  his  bidding. 

But  he  resumed  at  once  his  work-a-day  life, 
glad  that  a  world  of  letters  had  piled  up  on  his 
desk.  He  welcomed  every  knotty  problem  that 
was  brought  him;  accepted  every  task  laid 
upon  him,  and  went  about  it  all  with  an  earn- 
est eagerness,  that  excited  wonder  in  those 
about  him,  used  as  they  were  to  his  ceaseless 
industry. 

But  he  made  no  moan,  invited  and  gave 
no  confidences.  He  knew,  but  hid  it  from  his 
friends,  that  life  had  fallen  with  him  into  minor 
chords,  had  ceased  to  be  a  roundelay  and  be- 
come a  requiem! 


CHAPTER   V 

"  And  he  arose,  and  came  to  his  father." 

— Luke  xv. 

THERE  came  to  Morrison's  ears  a  report  con- 
cerning Beverley,  that  surprised  him  as  much 
as  had  Kantrell's  death.  He  had  become  a 
church-member,  he  was  told. 

He  was  at  a  loss,  at  first,  to  know  what  this 
meant;  he  hardly  thought  Beverley  would  in- 
dulge in  hypocrisy,  and  yet,  he  could  not  dis- 
sociate him  from  a  life  far  removed  from 
churchliness. 

"  I've  lived  at  a  rapid  rate,"  Beverley  said 
to  him  one  day,  "  running  along  the  edge 
of  a  precipice  as  it  were.  I'm  thankful  I  did 
not  topple  over  when  I  was  at  my  giddy  height, 
and  was  put  in  a  safer  path.  Yes,  I'm  a  Chris- 
tian; I  do  not  know  what  kind  of  a  one  I'll 
make — that  remains  to  be  seen." 

55 


56  OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

He  was  surprised  that  he  took  as  much  in- 
terest as  of  yore  in  Beverley's  companionship, 
and  noted,  as  the  time  passed  by,  that  Bever- 
ley  was  the  only  one  of  his  former  friends 
whose  treatment  of  him  was  in  every  way  the 
same.  The  others  dined  and  supped  him,  it  is 
true,  as  he  did  them — at  the  club,  but  Beverley 
entertained  him  at  his  home. 

And  what  a  treat  were  these  glimpses  of  a 
family  circle,  complete  in  husband,  wife,  and 
children,  and  to  be,  if  for  but  an  hour,  one  of 
the  cheerful  group  at  its  ingleside!  He  spoke 
of  these  visits  to  Beverley,  he  thought  of  them 
himself,  as  oases  in  his  desert ! 

Curtman  did  not  find,  as  readily  as  he  ex- 
pected, a  place  of  abode.  He  tried  the  best 
hotels,  one  after  another,  but  was  never  satis- 
fied— something  was  always  wrong,  and  he 
could  not  tell  what  it  was.  He  had  never  con- 
sidered himself  fault-finding  or  capricious,  but 
suddenly  he  had  become  both. 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          57 

He  came,  however,  to  see,  and  own  to  him- 
self that  it  was  he,  and  not  the  hostelry,  that 
was  at  fault. 

At  last  he  reached  a  permanency  in  an  up- 
town hotel,  located  in  the  old  neighborhood  in 
which  he  had  lived,  and  not  many  squares  from 
his  former  home.  In  the  day  he  could  see 
the  house  from  his  window,  and  at  night  a  light 
was  visible  from  the  lamp  in  Gertrude's  bed- 
room, where  he  knew  it  was  her  custom  to  sit. 
And  often  when  the  day's  work  was  over  he 
found  himself  seated  at  the  window,  his  eyes 
fastened  on  that  lamp,  and  his  thoughts  on  the 
woman  who  sat  beside  it! 

He  had  long  since  found  that  his  willing  a 
thing  was  not  its  accomplishment,  that  he  could 
not  close  up  the  avenues  of  thought  as  easily 
as  the  drawers  of  his  desk.  Moreover,  he  had 
come  to  be  glad  that  he  could  not — that  he 
could  not  forget.  Memory  brought  to  him 
some  bitter  draughts,  it  was  true,  but  many  a 


58          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

pleasant  one  as  well.  He  would  not  have  ex- 
changed for  peace — the  peace  of  forgetful- 
ness — his  past,  lined  and  underscored  though 
it  was  with  pain. 

No,  no,  not  oblivion — the  hitter  was  indeed 
bitter,  but  the  sweet  so  sweet! 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed  since  Morrison  had 
seen  Gertrude,  when  one  day  their  severed 
paths  met  an  instant  on  the  street.  She  gave 
him  the  salutation  she  would  have  given  any 
acquaintance.  He  was  astonished  beyond 
measure,  and  wondered  if  she  had  indeed  per- 
ceived that  it  was  he,  or  mistaken  him  for  some- 
one worthier  her  recognition.  His  presence  of 
mind,  almost  his  courtesy,  forsook  him;  but 
after  an  awkward  fashion  he  lifted  his  hat, 
and  turning  looked  after  her,  as  if  she  had  been 
a  princess  who  had  stepped  out  of  her  chariot 
and  accosted  him.  And  worse  than  his  em- 
barrassment, bad  as  it  was,  came  the  vexing 
consciousness  that  he  had  betrayed  it. 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  59 

That  night  as  he  sat  by  the  window,  looking 
across  to  where  her  lamp  burned  like  a  star  in 
the  darkness,  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  little 
blank  book  and  made  mention  of  this  incident. 

He  had  begun  keeping  an  intermittent  diary 
— he  called  its  pages  his  "  confidant."  "  I  can 
confide  to  you,"  he  said,  "  things  I  would  trust 
to  no  other  friend.  You  are  not  obsequious, 
you  do  not  try  to  condone  my  faults!  you 
accept  my  statements  with  no  embarrass- 
ing demurs.  If  I  call  myself  a  brute  or  mad- 
man, you  give  silent  acquiescence,  and  that  is 
what  I  want." 

Thursday:  "  I  passed  Gertrude  on  the  street 
to-day,"  it  read.  "  She  spoke  to  me.  Why 
I  should  have  been  surprised,  knowing  Ger- 
trude as  I  do,  and  that  she  would  have  saluted 
a  streetsweep  had  she  known  him,  I  cannot 
tell,  but  I  was;  I  made  a  sorry  spectacle. 
Guilt  is  always  embarrassed  in  the  presence 
of  virtue." 


60          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

Tuesday :  "  I  went  to  the  Charity  Bazaar 
last  night.  I  don't  know  why.  I  had  bought  a 
handful  of  tickets  and  given  them  all  away  but 
one.  It  is  quite  a  society  fad,  I'm  told,  but  it 
was  certainly  not  on  that  account  I  went.  To 
be  honest  with  you,  my  friend,  I  went  because 
I  hoped  I  might  see  her. 

"  I  sat  in  a  secluded  place,  made  by  the 
grouping  of  palms  and  ferns  about  a  rockery, 
and  waited  until  she  would  pass,  for  I  rightly 
thought  she  would  be  there — I  knew  the  object 
of  this  effort,  one  that  is  always  dear  to  her 
heart.  In  days  gone  by  I  had  come  to  the 
kirmess  with  her  many  a  time  myself.  What 
would  I  not  give  now  for  my  place  at  her  side ! 
There  was  excellent  music;  the  best  singers  of 
the  city  were  on  the  programme.  Bernardi's 
voice  was  never  sweeter,  and  when  in  encore 
he  gave  the  old-time  favorite, '  Oft  in  the  Stilly 
Night,'  there  was  a  hush  over  the  whole  house, 
— one  could  hear  himself  breathe.  There  was 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  61 

a  world  of  tenderness  in  his  voice,  and  when 
he  reached  the  words,  'I  feel  like  one  who 
treads  alone,  some  banquet  hall  deserted,'  I 

was  glad,  indeed,  that  I  was  hidden  behind  the 
palms.  I  wonder  why  we  are  ashamed  of 
tears ! 

"  Presently  Gertrude  came  by  with  our  old 
neighbors,  the  Wards  and  Scotts.  Some  others 
were  of  the  party,  Granville  Collins  among 
them.  He  was  not  talking  with  her;  she  was 
with  Mrs.  Gilbert,  but  he  was  in  the  company. 
...  I  felt  indignant.  It  was  in  bad  taste, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  for  him  to  be  with  her, 
and  yet — I  had  no  right  to  feel  aggrieved. 
.  .  .  Everybody  will  recall  now  that  he  was 
once  a  lover  of  hers.  She  surely  knows  that  it 
will  excite  comment.  But  Gertrude  always 
had  a  certain  kind  of  independence.  I  used  to 
admire  it.  It  annoys  me  now.  But  he  knows 
better — he  is  a  man — he  knows  how  the  world 
talks,  and  should  not  abuse  the  kindliness  and 


62  OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

courtesy  of  an  unsuspecting  woman.  It's  a 
poor  return  for  her  considerateness.  But  as 
I  said,  he  was  not  walking  or  talking  with  her 
—only  made  one  of  the  party.  .  .  .  He  told 
me  he  was  going  back  to  New  York  day  before 
yesterday.  Stayed  over  to  attend  this  bazaar 
I  suppose. 

"  I  don't  know  what  his  rating  as  a  business 
man  is.  Poor,  I'm  afraid — afraid?  I  need  not 
say  afraid,  as  I  don't  care.  ...  I  had  a  few 
friends  left,  whom  I  enjoyed;  Collins  was  one 
of  them,  but  I'm  tiring  of  him.  He  is  not 
the  man  I  thought  him.  He's  a  bore  and  I 
wonder  that  Gertrude  can  endure  him."  .  .  . 

Friday:  "  I  saw  Gertrude  drive  by  to-day. 
There  was  a  pretty  young  girl  in  the  carriage 
with  her.  I  wonder  who  it  was?  She  did  not 
see  me,  or  she  affected  not  to  see  me.  She  used 
to  never  affect  anything,  but  it's  a  strong 
temptation  to  pretend  not  to  see  or  speak  to 
someone  who  has — I  might  as  well  be  honest 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  63 

with  myself  and  say  the  word — who  has 
wronged  you.  .  .  .  But  I  must  not  give 
way  to  misery  and  bitter  breedings — she  was 
mine  once.  I  must  never  forget  that,  no  mat- 
ter what — has  come  to  pass,  she  was  mine  once. 
...  I  wonder  how  it  would  have  been  with 
her  if  she  had  been  the  one  to  blame — but  I 
will  not  think  that!  It  is  an  insult  to  her. 
.  .  .  I'm  glad  she  can  forget  the  past  and 
be  happy.  I  cannot."  .  .  . 

Monday:  "  I  go  on  Sunday  mornings  to 
the  cafe  past  which  Gertrude  walks  to  church. 
.  .  .  I  saw  her  yesterday,  unchanged  and 
beautiful — the  same  elastic  step,  the  same  pret- 
tily poised  head,  the  same  daintily  rounded 
figure.  But  how  can  she  have  that  sweet  look 
of  peace  on  her  face — how  can  she  have  the 
look  on  her  face,,  or  the  peace  in  her  heart?  I 
remember  once  reading  of  a  vine  that,  climbing 
up  the  cliff,  became  a  sheet  of  verdure,  though 
at  its  foot  it  had  scarcely  earth  enough  in  which 


64  OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

to  hide  its  roots.  It  seemed  a  living  marvel, 
until  research  revealed  the  fact  that  its  main 
root,  clinging  to  a  log,  had  spanned  the  chasm 
to  the  brook  beyond!  She  has  left,  may  be, 
'  earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring.' ' 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  am  deceiv'd  in  him." 

A  FEW  days  after  the  preceding  entries,  Jerry 
was  in  Curtman's  room  cleaning  the  windows. 

Jerry  was  that  member  of  the  hotel  force 
whose  duty  was  to  keep  bright  the  windows, 
polish  the  brasses,  turn  on  and  off  the  lights 
at  night,  and  do  many  little  things,  essential 
to  the  smooth  running  of  an  establishment, 
where  the  comfort  of  the  body  mortal  was 
cared  for — for  a  consideration. 

Curtman  had  known  him  a  long  while.  Both 
Jerry  and  his  sister,  Eliza  Jane,  had  been 
reared  by  Gertrude's  aunt,  Mrs.  Bramlet,  and 
Eliza  Jane  was  still  (as  she  had  been  for  many 
years)  Mrs.  Curtman's  cook. 

Jerry  was  going  over  some  little  family  his- 
tory this  afternoon,  as  he  cleaned  the  windows 

65 


66          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

in  Morrison's  room,  and  Morrison  was  giving 
the  eager  ear  he  always  gave  to  what  he  had  to 
say;  for  he  knew  that  sooner  or  later,  in  his 
remarks,  which  were  generally  of  a  desultory 
nature,  Jerry  would  make  some  mention  of 
Gertrude.  No  other  human  being  ever  called 
her  name  in  his  presence,  and  his  ears  were 
hungry  for  the  sound! 

'  Yes,  Miss  Kath'rn  raised  me  an'  Lizer jane ; 
our  mammy  wuz  one  uv  they  ole  f  am'bly  serv- 
ents.  We  cum  up  heyr  with  her  frum  New- 
oleens.  We  wuz  'bout  half-growed  an'  skittish, 
like  young  colts,  when  she  fust  took  hold  uv 
us ;  but  she  soon  har'nist  us  up  an'  broke  us  in." 

'  Yes,  Mrs.  Bramlet  understands  breaking 
people  in,  I've  no  doubt." 

"  Now,  Boss,  youse  got  a  wrong  z'dey  'bout 
Miss  Kath'rn,  you  doan  understan'  her;  she 
doan  mean  no  harm  by  that  sav'ge  way  she's 
got  uv  talkin'.  Jest  go  'long  like  you  doan 
hear  nuthin'  she  say  an'  sh'll  furgit  what  she's 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          67 

talkin'  'bout.  I  do  suttin'  wish  she  wuzn't  so 
much  oler  than  me  an'  likliest  ter  die  fust;  ef 
she  wuzn't  I'd  jest  lay  off  to  fall  on  her  han's 
ter  take  keer  uv  me  when  I  gits  ole.  As  'tiz 
I  dunno  who's  gwine  ter  take  keer  uv  me  when 
I  gits  ole,  less'n  it's  Miss  Gertrue."  After  a 
moment's  thought,  he  added,  "  An'  that's  jest 
who'll  do  it,"  with  the  pleased  assurance  of  a 
man  who  announces  he  has  ahead  of  him  a 
gathering  dividend  in  gilt-edge  bonds. 

After  a  little  silent  application  to  his  work, 
Jerry  resumed. 

"  Boss,  you  aint  looking  good  like  you  use 
ter;  youse  fell  off,  ain't  you?  " 

Curtman  brought  himself  back  with  a  start 
from  where  Jerry's  words  had  carried  him. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  was  getting  a  little  heavy — I 
had  some  flesh  to  spare." 

"  I  dunno ;  you  doan  look  like  you  use  ter. 
Maybe  the  hotel  eatin'  doan  'gree  with  you. 
Wonder  to  me  it  'grees  with  enybody — whole 


68          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

passel  o'  things  mixed  up  together  till  you 
can't  tell  whut  they  is.  Leastwise  I  can't.  I 
doan  pay  no  'tention  to  'em  myself,  I  jest  goes 
on  an'  eats  'em  things  I'se  use  ter  an'  let 
'em  others  go.  I  dunno'  who  do  eat  'em! 
Think  uv  havin'  a  chickin  frickerseed  when 
you  might  uv  fried  it!  An'  that  maronaze — 
they  jest  pour  it  over  ev'rything.  I'm  lookin' 
fur  'em  to  pour  it  over  the  ice  cream  nex'." 

Curtman  laughed.  This  was  all  the  encour- 
agement Jerry  needed. 

"  Now  let  me  tell  you,  Boss,"  wringing  out 
his  cloth  and  proceeding  to  a  fresh  pane, 
"  doan'  you  never  eat  no  omlette  at  a  hotel. 
There  ain't  no  tellin'  when  that  egg  wuz  laid 
that  it's  made  out  uv!  When  they  brings  it 
to  you  in  the  shell  it's  safe,  but  look  out  for 
the  omlette." 

"  Well,  I  can  get  along  without  the  omlette. 
But  I  get  tired  of  hotel  cooking  generally.  It 
isn't " 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          69 

"  Whut  youse  use  to ;  that's  whut's  the  mat- 
ter. I  kno'  whut  you  bin  use  ter,  Boss.  I've 
et  many  a  meal  in  your  ki'chen.  Miss  Ger- 
true  sho'  do  kno'  how  to  have  good  cookin'. 
She  buys  fust-class  things  to  start  on,  an'  then 
she  has  'em  put  t'gether  fust  class.  She  kno's 
how  to  do  ev'rything  enyhow,  Miss  Gertrue 
does.  She's  whut  I  call  a  laidee.  They 
all  ain't  laidees  whut  looks  like  it;  but 
she  is." 

'  Yes,"  assented  Morrison  with  deliberate- 
ness  and  earnestness,  "  she  is  a  lady — there  is 
not  in  the  whole  world  her  equal,  and — I'm — 
an  ass." 

"  Jest  so,  Boss,"  agreed  Jerry,  rubbing 
away  on  the  glass,  "  but  there  ain't  many  whut 
say  that  'bout  theyselves,  tho'  they  must  kno' 
ev'rybody  else  kin  see  it.  Boss,  did  you  kno' 
that  Mr.  Collins  wuz  in  the  hotel  now.  Come 
one  day  las'  week." 

"  Yes,  I  have  met  him,"  and  he  recalled  a 


70          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

short  interview  they  had  had,  not  altogether 
without  constraint  on  both  sides. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  you  an'  him  use  ter 
both  uv  you  be  waitin'  on  Miss  Gertrue  when 
you  wuz  young  men? " 

Curtman  certainly  remembered  that.  Like 
the  fresh,  sweet  breath  from  a  bed  of  violets 
the  memory  came  back  to  him.  Yes,  they  had 
both  loved  her,  but  the  race  with  him,  as  with 
his  other  rivals,  had  been  short.  Only  a  little 
while  did  the  love  of  coquetry  get  the  mastery 
of  her;  only  a  little  while  did  she  delay  ac- 
knowledging the  return  of  his  affection,  soon 
to  become  his  wife.  And  then  they  had  lived 
ten  such  happy  years  together.  How  short  it 
appeared  as  he  looked  back  now — only  one 
moon  it  seemed,  and  that  a  honeymoon.  .  .  . 
And  now  he  had  lost  her!  Lost  her?  No,  not 
lost  her,  he  had  thrown  her  away!  The  lines 
deepened  on  his  forehead  and  an  ashen  white- 
ness came  to  his  face. 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          71 

Had  Jerry  turned  he  would  have  ceased  his 
work  to  offer  aid.  But  he  did  not  turn,  in- 
stead continued  with  his  polishing  and  with  his 
talk. 

"  Lizerjane  says  Mr.  Collins  has  had  the 
'surance  to  call  on  Miss  Gertrue,  but  he  might 
jest  as  well  stayed  at  home.  Miss  Gertrue 
ain't  gwine  ter  look  at  him! " 

Curtman  was  silent,  but  he  had  heard,  and 
the  remark  made  stronger  a  suspicion  that  had 
crept  into  his  brain.  Gertrude  marry  again — 
someone  else!  The  thought  was  monstrous! 
He  had  considered  himself  miserable  before, 
but  it  was  far  worse  with  him  now.  Here  was 
another  possibility  of  suffering,  and  into  its 
depths  he  plunged,  leaving  Jerry's  further 
comments  unnoted,  indeed  unheard,  and  be- 
came so  rapt  in  thought  that  he  did  not 
know  when  he  finished  his  work  and  left 
the  room.  This,  though,  was  partly  due  to 
Jerry's  thoughtfulness,  who  forbore  breaking 


72          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

his  reverie,  and  tipped  lightly  out  of  the  room, 
noiselessly  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

"  The  Boss  sho'  do  study  mighty  hard,"  he 
soliloquized,  as  he  walked  down  the  hall.  "  I 
boun'  he's  studyin'  'bout  Miss  Gertrue  now. 
That  man  ain't  quit  lovin'  that  'oman  yit.  An' 
he  never  will — he  can't!" 


CHAPTER   VII 

"  For  when  all  these  wishes  have  died  away, 
The  deep  strong  love  of  a  brighter  day, 
Though  nourished  in  secret  consumes  the  more, 
As  the  slow  rust  eats  to  the  iron's  core." 

"  Do  these  beams  that  shine 
So  clearly,  come  from  your  sweet  home  to  mine  ?  " 

THE  evening  had  almost  deepened  into  twi- 
light before  Curtman  left  his  business  house 
for  his  hotel,  which,  by-the-way,  he  always 
called  his  hotel,  never  his  home.  The  car  he 
boarded  was  quite  full  of  passengers;  the  few 
vacant  seats  left  were  at  the  farther  end,  and 
at  the  next  stop  made,  Gertrude  entered  and 
took  one  of  these. 

Even  to  pass  her  on  the  street,  or  see  her  in 
the  distance,  he  counted  a  happy  epoch  in  his 
existence,  an  event  that  was  the  subject  of 
many  musings  and  lengthy  entries  in  his  diary, 

73 


74          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

but  now,  to  be  under  the  same  roof  with  her, 
even  though  but  the  roof  of  a  public  convey- 
ance, and  she  oblivious  of  his  nearness,  he  ac- 
cepted with  a  thrill  of  joy,  congratulating  him- 
self that  the  ride  must  be  so  long. 

He  did  not  see  her  face;  it  was  averted  as 
she  looked  steadily  out  of  the  window  by  which 
she  sat,  but  anywhere  in  the  world  he  would 
have  recognized  the  contour  of  those  shapely 
shoulders,  that  beautifully  poised  head,  and 
those  small,  pink-tipped  ears. 

The  route  of  the  car  lay  partly  through 
an  old  ramshackle  quarter  of  the  city,  where 
all  regard  for  appearances  had  long  since 
vanished.  Second-hand  stores,  tenement 
houses  of  the  dilapidated  kind,  and  saloons 
were  in  continual  evidence;  and  it  was  just 
in  the  midst  of  these  surroundings  that  Ger- 
trude left  the  car. 

What  could  she  mean!  The  old-time  sense 
of  ownership  and  protection  flashed  up  in 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          75 

Morrison  like  a  fuse  at  the  touch  of  fire,  and 
without  a  second  thought  he,  too,  got  off . 

Why  was  she  here  in  this  part  of  the  town? 
and  at  this  hour?  He  would  see;  he  would 
give  no  regard  to  appearances,  to  anything. 
He  would  follow  her;  even  if  she  should  turn 
and  see  him,  he  would  follow  her!  But  she 
did  not  turn ;  she  walked  straight  along  on  her 
errand — whatever  it  was — without  haste  or 
nervousness,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor 
left.  He  followed  too  close  for  prudence ;  too 
intent  to  lag  in  his  quest. 

At  length  she  reached  a  house,  that  seemed 
to  be  her  journey's  end;  a  large  double  build- 
ing, with  rooms  on  either  side  the  spacious 
hall.  It  had  evidently  been  pretentious  in  its 
day;  but  its  day  was  far  back  in  the  past,  and 
now,  only  the  broad  stone  steps,  and  semicircle 
of  grimy  carving  above  the  entrance,  betrayed 
its  past  ambitions. 

Up  these  steps  Gertrude  went,  and  after  a 


76          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

short  pause  in  the  hall,  only  long  enough  for  a 
response  to  her  knock,  was  shut  from  view  in 
one  of  these  rooms.  Curtman  followed  her 
into  the  hall.  His  entrance  had  not  been 
challenged ;  the  hall  was  but  the  common  pass- 
way  for  the  roomers  on  both  floors.  There  was 
no  liveried  servant  here  to  answer  his  ring,  in- 
deed, no  bell  to  ring. 

He  stood  a  while,  irresolute,  by  the  door 
Gertrude  had  entered,  then  walked  a  little 
further  down,  and,  finding  an  empty  upturned 
box  in  the  shadow  of  the  stairway,  seated  him- 
self upon  it,  to  wonder,  and  await  her  re- 
appearance. 

Some  children  with  unkempt  hair,  in  tat- 
tered clothes  passed  shyly  around  him  as  if 
suspicious  of  his  presence  in  their  domain ;  and 
two  girls,  with  painted  faces  and  in  tawdry 
finery,  looked  at  him  askance  as  they  went  up 
the  stairs,  talking  loud  enough  for  him  to  hear, 
about  the  "  dude."  These  came  back  again 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          77 

and  gave  him  a  second  look,  but  his  eyes  were 
so  unseeing,  and  his  countenance  so  solemn, 
that  they  concluded  there  was  something 
wrong  with  him. 

"He's  crazy,"  one  of  them  said;  "I'm 
'fraid  of  him." 

'  Yes,  he's  crazy,"  agreed  the  other. 

Morrison  heard  these  whispered  confidences. 

"  They  may  be  right,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"  I  may  be  crazy" 

After  a  while  the  door  through  which  Ger- 
trude had  gone  opened  again,  and  she  reap- 
peared, followed  by  an  old  woman,  to  whom 
she  was  giving  some  final  directions. 

"  See  that  Maggie  has  every  attention  that 
is  necessary,"  she  was  saying.  "  If  the  doctor 
is  needed  any  more  have  him  come.  I  will 
settle  the  bills;  and  when  she  is  well  she  must 
come  back  to  her  place." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Curtman,"  the  old  woman  was 
replying,  "  we  can't  tell  you  how  we  are 


78  OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

obleeged  to  you.  An'  you  don't  know,  you 
can't  know,  how  much  it  means  to  us  f er  you 
to  take  her  back  agin.  The  poor  thing  cer- 
tainly is  penitent,  an'  I  hope  the  Lord  has  for- 
given her,  but  she  says  she  wuz  'fraid  you 
wouldn't  take  her  back,  and  ef  you,  good  as 
you  wuz,  wouldn't  let  her  work  f  er  you,  who 
on  earth  would!  Did  you  notice  how  she 
couldn't  say  nuthin',  jest  looked  down  and 
cried,  when  you  told  her  she  could  come  back? 
You'll  get  your  reward,  Mrs.  Curtman — 
you'll  get  your  reward ! " 

She  watched  Gertrude  until  she  was  down 
the  steps  and  on  the  sidewalk.    Turning  back 
into  the  hall  she  perceived  Curtman,  who  had 
risen,  but  was  still  standing  in  the  shadow  of  . 
the  stairway. 

'  Who  are  you?  "  she  demanded,  "  and  what 
are  you  doing  here?  "  for  his  dress  and  general 
appearance,  even  in  the  darkening  hall,  showed 
that  he  was  not  one  of  the  tenants. 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  79 

"Are  you  a  doctor,  or  preacher? "  she  con- 
tinued, "  f  er  ef  you  ain't,  you  ain't  got  no  busi- 
ness here." 

Curtman,  taken  thus  off  guard,  forgot,  if 
he  had  framed  a  reason  for  his  presence,  and 
blurted  out  the  fact. 

"  I  followed  Mrs.  Curtman  here,"  he  said. 

"You  followed  Mrs.  Curtman  here!  You 
jes'  ought  to  let  Mr.  Curtman  hear  you  say 
that  onct!  They's  had  trouble,  of  course,  an* 
ain't  livin'  together,  but  nobody  can't  do  her 
eny  harm  an'  think  they  won't  hear  f  rum  him. 
Followed  Mrs.  Curtman,  indeed!  " 

From  the  first  glimpse  Morrison  had  caught 
as  she  came  out  of  the  door  with  Gertrude, 
he  recognized  in  the  old  woman  Mrs.  Turner, 
an  adept  at  special  kinds  of  housework,  who 
had  often  done  service  at  his  home,  and  whose 
niece  had  been  Gertrude's  maid.  He  re- 
called now  that  he  had  heard  poor  Maggie  was 
in  trouble. 


"  Mrs.  Turner,  you  don't  recognize  me,"  he 
said,  turning  to  her  as  they  neared  the  door. 

"Why,  Mr.  Curtman,  is  this  you!"  She 
exclaimed,  starting  back.  "  I  didn't  know  it 
was  you;  I  wouldn't  a-said  what  I  did.  Of 
course,  I  never  thought  that  you  would " 

"  Of  course  not,  I  understand.  I'm  glad 
you  said  what  you  did.  I  would  protect  her  at 
the  risk  of  my  life  any  day.  Yes,  she  is  a  lady, 
and — my  wife.  But  I  am  a  madman,  Mrs. 
Turner,  and — an  idiot." 

'*  Yes,  yes,"  assented  Mrs.  Turner,  as  if  the 
assertion  was  one  not  to  be  gainsaid. 

"  But  hurry  on,  Mr.  Curtman,"  she  added, 
pointing  to  the  darkening  street,  in  which  the 
lamps  had  not  yet  been  lighted.  "  You  hurry 
after  Mrs.  Curtman;  this  is  a  bad  neighbor- 
hood for  the  likes  o'  her  to  be  in,  with  the 
night  nearly  here." 

Morrison  needed  no  urging.  He  quickened 
his  pace  almost  to  a  run,  and  reached  the  corner 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          81 

in  time  to  see  Gertrude  board  a  home-bound 
car. 

When  he  got  back  to  his  hotel  he  did  not  go 
in  to  dinner — though  it  was  far  past  his  usual 
hour — until  across  the  intervening  darkness 
he  saw  flash  out  the  rays  of  her  lamp,  and 
knew  that  she  had  reached  her  home  in  safety. 

Tuesday:  "  This  has  been  a  red-letter  day 
with  me.  I  had  the  privilege  and  honor  of 
doing  my  wife  a  service  I  Yes,  my  wife — I 
shall  call  her  this  till  death.  How  can  '  man 
put  asunder '  those  whom  *  God  hath  joined 
together '!...!  read  a  beautiful  little 
poem  to-day.  A  verse  of  it  lodged  in  my  mind. 
For  fear  I  shall  forget  it,  friend,  I  shall  com- 
mit it  to  your  keeping. 

"  If  God  hath  given  thee  me,  dear  heart, 
The  whole  round  world  can  not  keep  us  apart: 
No  other's  lips,  not  poverty  or  death 
Can  keep  thee  from  me,  nay  not  e'en  thyself." 

"  I  come  across  many  things  that  seem  to  have 


been  written  especially  for  me.  My  pocket- 
book  is  filled  with  clippings:  poems  of  sor- 
row, sin,  suffering,  and  remorse.  And  some 
I  have  saved,  some  tell  of  love  and  for- 
giveness ! "  .  .  . 

Wednesday:  "  Gertrude  would  far  sooner 
think  of  earning  her  living,  had  she  no  means, 
by  menial  labor,  than  to  accept,  much  less  ask, 
alimony  of  me!  Yet,  I  send  her  monthly  a 
check ;  I  send  it  one  day,  the  next  I  find  lying 
on  my  desk  an  envelope  bearing  my  name,  in 
her  own  writing,  containing  the  same  check. 
Not  a  word  accompanies  it.  Yet  I  continue  to 
send  them.  I  want  her  to  know  how  willing 
I  am  to  furnish  her  with  money ;  but  more  still, 
I  want  that  envelope  bearing  my  name  in  her 
own  writing.  It  is  something  she  has  held  in 
her  hand,  it  has  my  name  upon  it  that  she  has 
written!  Once  I  made  the  draft  the  full 
amount  of  my  deposit.  It  made  no  difference, 
it  was  back  on  my  desk  the  following  day.  I 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  83 

was  ashamed  of  this,  as  I  thought  of  it  after- 
ward; it  looked  as  if  I  were  trying  to  buy  her 
— to  pay  her  to  condone  my  crime.  She  would 
have  scorned  such  a  thought  and  me  for  sug- 
gesting it.  But  she  is  charitable,  and  doubtless 
viewed  it  in  some  better  light."  .  .  . 

Thursday:  "It  is  not  only  an  iniquity,  but 
a  mistake,  for  a  man  in  seeking  advancement 
in  another's  favor  to  commend  the  other's  evil 
deeds.  My  favor  is  not  bought  with  such  coin. 
Smith  said  to  me  to-day,  as  we  were  talking 
together  after  business  hours,  '  This  wise  old 
world  doesn't  know  as  much  as  it  thinks  it  does ; 
wives  sometimes  give  provocations  that  it  never 
knows,  and  so  the  husbands  are  branded  as 
brutes  while  the  wives  are  eulogized  as  saints.' 
'  And  the  world  puts  it  correctly  so  far  as 
my  observation  goes,'  I  replied. 

"  He  looked  surprised.  I  had  intended  he 
should  be  surprised.  He  is  courting  favor 
with  me — looking  to  the  secretaryship!  If 


84          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

he  but  knew  it,  I'd  rather  give  it  to  Mrs. 
Turner,  or  Jerry;  they  both  agreed  with  me 
that  I  was  an  idiot  and  an  ass !"  .  .  . 

Monday :  "  I  find  that  I  am  capricious  and 
changeable,  my  friend,  if,  indeed,  not  posi- 
tively insincere.  It  is  the  latter,  I've  no  doubt. 
I  have  said  to  you  more  than  once  that  I'm 
glad  Gertrude  is  happy.  It  is  not  true — I  am 
TIO*  glad.  How  can  I  be  glad  that  she  is 
happy,  living  on  in  perfect  indifference  to 
me ! "  .  .  . 

Thursday:  "They  told  me  at  the  business 
house  to-day  that  I  was  not  looking  well.  I 
replied  promptly,  *  I  am  not  well — I  have 
dyspepsia.'  It  was  the  first  ailment  that  came 
to  my  mind.  It  was  another  lie.  I  never  had 
dyspepsia  in  my  life — I  have  the  stomach  of 
an  ostrich.  I'm  not  as  truthful  as  I  used  to  be; 
I'm  a  worse  man  every  way.  I  shall  hereafter 
say  that  I  have  heart  trouble  and  state  a  fact. 
We  have  two  hearts,  one  the  engine  in  our 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          85 

breast  that  pumps  the  red  current  through  our 
veins,  the  engine  that  works  away  at  its  ap- 
pointed task  whether  we  wake  or  sleep,  whether 
we  will  it  or  not.  But  the  other  heart!  I  can- 
not locate  it,  neither  can  physicians.  It  is  glad, 
it  exults,  it  sings,  it  bounds  with  joy;  again  it 
longs,  it  languishes,  it  throbs  with  pain  and 
struggles  like  a  caged  bird  that  beats  itself 
against  its  bars.  Yes,  I  can  truly  say  I  have 
heart  trouble! " 

Tuesday:  "  My  days  go  by  much  the  same; 
to-day  is  like  yesterday,  and  yesterday  was  like 
the  day  before;  work  and  worry  at  the  house 
while  there,  loneliness  and  remorse,  and  idle 
reveries  here.  Try  as  I  may  I  cannot  will  it 
otherwise. 

"  The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep, 
Its  ears  are  open  still, 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 
Against  my  feeble  will !  " 

"  Against  my  feeble  will — ah,  that  is  it,  my 
feeble  will!" 


CHAPTER   VIII 

"  Husband   and   wife !   no   converse   now   ye  hold, 
As  once  ye  did  in  your  young  days  of  love." 

•  •  *  •  • 

"  And  yet,  and  yet, 

My  darling,  I  do  sometimes  quite  forget 
That  we  are  parted — almost  feel  that  I 
Am  still  where  you  are,  sometimes  even  try 
To  hear  your  footstep — Oh !  dear  heart,  dear  heart, 
My  other  self,  my  purer,  better  part." 

ONE  night  when  Morrison  felt  particularly 
tired  of  himself  and  his  surroundings,  he  de- 
cided on  a  longer  than  his  usual  walk.  It  was 
his  custom  to  take  a  daily  tramp  of  many 
squares,  arguing  that  physical  exhaustion 
brought  rest;  and  it  did — physical  rest. 

His  walk  this  evening  extended  to  the  park. 
The  warmth  of  the  day,  though  greatly  mod- 
erated, still  lingered  in  the  air;  the  moonlight 
flooded  the  lawns,  the  flower-beds,  and  foun- 

86 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          87 

tains;  from  the  farther  end  of  the  grounds, 
where  the  band  was  stationed,  came  now  and 
then  strains  of  music,  and  nearer  rang  out  the 
voices  of  drivers  and  equestrians. 

But  all  this  held  for  Morrison  little  interest ; 
this  note  of  gayety  but  poorly  accorded  with 
the  minor  chords  of  his  threnody.  These 
merry  sounds  of  companionship  only  served 
to  accentuate  his  loneliness. 

A  carriage  with  some  chatty  occupants 
drew  near  and  paused  while  the  horses  drank 
at  the  basin.  These  too,  like  the  others,  would 
have  gone  unnoticed  had  he  not  heard  his  own 
name  called  in  the  course  of  a  conversation 
then  in  progress. 

He  turned  to  see  these  possible  acquaint- 
ances. He  knew  the  men  of  the  party,  and 
recognized,  in  the  fair  occupants,  two,  of  the 
three  ladies,  to  whom  he  had  been  introduced  at 
his  hotel.  They  had  been  staying  there  for 
some  weeks,  he  had  heard,  these  daughters  with 


88          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

their  mother,  they  the  children,  and  she  the 
widow  of  an  eminent  New  York  lawyer. 

"  Yes,  Curtman  is  about  the  finest  article  on 
the  matrimonial  market,"  one  of  the  men  was 
saying,  "  unless  you  object  to  a  divorcee." 

"  But  he  is  so  indifferent — indifference  per- 
sonified," the  fair  lady  replied;  "he  scarcely 
more  than  recognizes  his  introduction  to  us, 
though  it  was  given  by  one  of  his  own  friends." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  he  laughed,  "  he  has  not  yet 
begun  to  '  take  notice.'  Well,  you  must  give  a 
man  time — time  to  'be  off  with  the  old  love 
before  he  is  on  with  the  new.' ' 

"  I  give  no  such  advice,  Miss  Randall;  don't 
waste  your  time  on  Curtman;  his  '  old  love  '  is 
his  wife,  and  he  will  never  be  off  with  it.  Make 
other  use  of  your  lasso." 

"  Now,  don't  listen  to  Semple,"  said  the 
other  man ;  "  he  is  far  too  much  interested  to 
give  good  advice.  Curtman  threw  away  his 
wife  for  one  woman,  and  while  she  is  away, 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  89 

what  more  probable  than  that  another  should 
capture  him ! " 

"  That  is,"  interrupted  Miss  Randall,  "  he 
made  himself  an  idiot  about  one  woman,  why 
should  he  not  about  another?  " 

"Exactly;  history  repeats  itself!" 

"  Not  always,"  said  Semple.  "  Be  advised 
by  me.  Curtman  is  big  game,  rated  by  figures, 
and  as  this  word's  used,  clever  into  the  bargain, 
but  you'll  be  wasting  your  time.  There's  no 
lasso  long  enough  to  reach  him." 

"  One  reached  him  once,"  laughed  the  other 
man. 

"  But  it  broke,"  replied  Semple. 

They  drove  on. 

"My  name  a  laugh  and  jest;  its  respect 
and  dignity  gone ! "  Curtman  said  to  himself 
bitterly. 

He  turned  back  into  the  city,  and,  strange  to 
say,  into  the  street — though  it  was  several 
squares  out  of  his  way — that  led  past  his  old 


90  OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

home.  He  somehow  felt  that  he  could  not 
sleep  to-night  unless  he  had  seen  it — been  near 
the  walls  that  held  her. 

He  slackened  his  pace  when  he  reached  the 
block  on  which  he  had  once  lived;  on  which 
she  now  lived,  and  fastening  his  eyes  on  the 
house  in  his  slow  approach,  noted  every  par- 
ticular about  it  and  its  surroundings.  The 
wistaria  was  richly  adorned  with  its  purple 
tassels,  the  clematis  a  sheet  of  blossoms,  and  the 
roses,  grapes,  and  honeysuckles  were  filling 
the  air  with  their  fragrance.  How  like  the  old 
days  it  all  seemed  as  he  stood  looking!  Why 
not  feed  the  fancy  and  turn  in  at  the  gate 
as  if  he  were  still  lord  of  the  premises?  The 
lights  were  out  in  the  hall  and  library,  but  hers 
still  burned — she  had  not  gone  to  bed. 

Yielding  to  the  impulse,  he  went  with  cau- 
tious tread  up  the  walk,  and  seated  himself  in 
the  very  chair  in  which  he  had  so  often  sat  in  the 
happy  days  when  Gertrude  was  beside  him. 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          91 

There  was  a  deep  chasm  between  them  now, 
he  knew,  but  it  was  a  kind  of  pleasure  to  be  so 
near  her  and  bridge  it  over  with  sweet  mem- 
ories. He  tried  to  think  her  hand  was  in  his, 
that  she  had  come  down  the  stairs,  and,  taking 
the  chair  by  him,  was  telling  him  the  little  hap- 
penings of  the  day,  and  listening  with  pleased 
interest  to  all  he  had  to  say. 

He  sat  fully  an  hour  indulging  such  fancies 
when  a  man,  passing  along  the  sidewalk, 
stopped  suddenly  in  front  of  the  gate.  This 
was  indeed  a  dilemma — to  be  found  here  at 
Gertrude's  home!  For  the  fancies  had  died 
away,  and  the  terrible  fact  obtruded  itself  upon 
him  that  he  no  longer  belonged  here! 

The  man  turned  at  the  gate  as  if  to  enter; 
the  moonlight  fell  on  a  metal  star  on  his  coat, 
and  Curtman,  even  before  seeing  his  face, 
knew  it  was  Allin  Lester,  the  policeman.  He 
had  for  many  years  walked  this  beat,  and  had 
come  to  be  a  kind  of  family  friend. 


92          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

He  arose,  and  stepping  softly  along  the 
walk,  joined  him.  A  pleased,  kindly  look  over- 
spread the  policeman's  face  as  he  recognized 
the  former  master  of  the  premises,  and  he 
shook  his  hand  with  a  warmth  and  earnestness 
that  Morrison  did  not  understand  at  first,  but 
whose  source  he  discovered  before  he  had  gone 
many  steps. 

"  Ah,  it  looks  like  the  good  old  times  to  see 
you  here,  Mr.  Curtman !  " 

"  Yes,  it  looks  natural ;  and  natural  to  see 
you,  too,  Allin.  You  keep  close  watch  here  in 
the  neighborhood,  don't  you — on  this  house?  " 

"  That  I  do,  Mr.  Curtman,  that  I  do.  But 
now  that  you  are  back,  I  needn't  have  her  on 
my  mind  no  more.  I'm  glad — I'm  gladder 
than  I  can  tell  you,  Mr.  Curtman,  that  it's 
all  made  up  between  you.  She's  a  fine  woman 
an*  I'm  glad  for  her  to  be  happy  agin.  I  al- 
ways know'd  you'd  have  to  come  back,  you'd 
jest  have  to  come  back." 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          93 

"But,  Allin "  Curtman  paused  and 

cleared  his  throat. 

"  Yes,  sir,  there  ain't  a  finer  woman  livin' 
than  that  lady  there,  shure;  she  says  '  Good- 
morning  '  to  me  whenever  she  see  me,  same  as 
if  I  was  worth  a  million.  And  she  always  asks 
about  the  childern.  And  one  day,  when  I  told 
her  they  had  scarlet  fever,  what  do  you  think 
she  done?  Why,  she  come  down  to  our  house, 
and  bein'  as  my  wife  was  sick,  nurse  them 
herself." 

"  Did  she  do  that,  Allin?  But  what  would 
she  not  do  for  the  good  or  happiness  of 
others! 

"  Oh,  Allin,"  he  said,  as  they  neared  the 
point  where  their  paths  diverged,  "  you  are 
laboring  under  a  mistake.  It  is  not  made  up 
between  us — this  trouble.  .  .  .  Continue, 
my  friend,  your  nightly  vigils;  whether  it  be 
still  or  stormy,  guard  well  this  house.  I  will 
see  that  you  are  rewarded." 


94          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

"  Rewarded !  I  ain't  workin'  for  no  reward 
in  takin'  care  o'  her!  " 

Curtman  did  not  retire  till  late  that  night, 
and  wrote  much  in  his  diary.  Among  the 
entries  was  an  old  song  he  had  heard  long  ago ; 
line  by  line  the  words  came  back  and  made 
themselves  into  the  verses: 

"  Often  and  often  will  memory  go, 
Like  a  blind  child  lost  in  a  waste  of  snow, 
Back  to  the  days  when  you  loved  me  so, 
The  beautiful  long  ago. 

"  I  sit  here  dreaming  them  through  and  through, 
The  blissful  moments  I  shared  with  you, 
When  you  were  trusting  and  I  was  true, 
Beautiful  days,  but  few." 

"  How  strange  it  is  that  one  human  being's 
life  can  be  so  much  to  another — that  it  can  be 
of  such  intense  interest  where  that  other  is, 
what  doing,  what  thinking!  .  .  .  What 
misery  to  have  once  owned,  but  discarded, 
that  which  after  it  is  discarded  is  found  to  be 
more  to  you  than  all  the  world  besides.  .  .  . 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES  95 

There  is  a  kind  of  satisfaction  in  admitting 
one's  guilt,  in  confession  to  oneself  the  per- 
petration of  a  crime;  a  kind  of  satisfaction,  I 
say — but  not  peace.  I  have  tried  them,  ad- 
mission and  self-condemnation,  but  the  peace 
has  not  come.  ...  I  live  on  from  day  to 
day  hoping,  although  there  may  be  nothing 
better  in  store  for  me,  that  the  worst  is  past." 
Thursday:  'This  evening's  paper  had  a 
long  article  on  the  coffee  industry.  The  work 
of  our  house  in  Costa  Rica  was  dwelt  on  at 
length.  I  did  not  know  when  Nelson  was 
talking  with  me  that  he  was  collecting  ma- 
terial for  publication.  I  might  not  have  been 
so  communicative ;  I  hardly  think  that  I  would. 
He  comments  at  length  on  the  good  wages 
we  pay  our  laborers,  the  sanitary  conditions 
of  their  quarters,  and  the  precautions  taken 
against  disease.  All  this  will  please  Gertrude 
when  she  reads  it ;  she  has  great  sympathy  for 
the  poor,  the  ignorant,  and  the  oppressed.  She 


96          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

loves  everything  that  God  has  made — except 
me.  .  .  .  After  all,  I'm  glad  Nelson  got 
the  facts  and  wrote  this.  Gertrude  will  see 
that  I  have  carried  out  her  suggestions  and 
will  be  pleased. 

"  How  often  we  talked  this  over  together ! 
and  much  we  thought  of  then  is  now  a  fact 
accomplished.  But  I  would  give  it  all — all 
the  fruition  of  these  schemes,  for  the  bygone 
days  we  sat  together  discussing  them.  Far 
happier  was  I  with  her,  planning,  than  alone, 
possessing! " 

Just  here  he  laid  down  his  diary  to  answer 
a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  Jerry  with 
his  brush  and  polish.  Morrison  drew  a  sigh 
of  relief — it  was  not  a  "  pale  face  "  for  whom 
he  would  have  to  make  conversation.  Jerry 
made  his  own  conversation,  or  rather  he  was 
a  monologist,  who  talked  to  hear  himself  talk 
— Eliza  Jane  said — and  made  no  embarrassing 
requirements  of  his  audience. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES  97 

But  to  Morrison  he  was  a  link  with  home 
and  those  other  days,  and  was  never  in  his  way; 
he  could  clean  windows,  polish  mirrors,  and 
talk,  too,  as  much  as  he  pleased! 

But  Jerry  was  a  long  time  coming  to  lo- 
quaciousness to-day.  He  seemed  to  have  much 
unfinished  humming  to  do.  This  low,  indis- 
tinct carrying  of  a  tune,  with  his  partly  closed 
lips,  was  his  habit  when  very  intent  on  his 
occupation. 

Curtman  was  disappointed,  for  often  Jerry, 
with  a  few  words  helped  him  make  a  vivid  pic- 
ture of  home;  his  etching  he,  himself,  would 
fill  in  with  all  the  strokes  and  tones  necessary 
for  a  glowing  life-like  picture.  If  Jerry  said 
Gertrude  had  been  in  the  kitchen  that  day 
reading  a  receipt  to  Eliza  Jane,  he  straight- 
way pictured  her  in  her  pretty  morning  frock, 
looking  fresh  and  sweet;  for  Gertrude — in  the 
kitchen  instructing  servants,  or  in  the  parlor 
entertaining  guests,  in  full  evening  toilets  or 


98          OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

domestic  dress — looked  always  beautiful  and 
dainty.  If  Jerry  had  waited  while  she  finished 
a  letter  for  him  to  mail,  he  straightway  por- 
trayed her  at  the  writing  desk,  intent  on  her 
occupation,  her  shapely  white  hand  racing 
along  the  paper,  or  hovering  quietly  above  it 
while  she  paused  and  thought,  sometimes 
with  serious  face,  sometimes  smiling. 

And  Gertrude  wrote  such  good  letters! 
During  their  married  life  they  had  been  so  sel- 
dom separated,  that  he  had  only  had  a  few 
from  her,  but  they  were  stamped  on  his  mem- 
ory, not  their  exact  words,  but  their  general 
intent,  their  motif,  and  it  was  always  tender, 
loving,  and  true.  Why  had  he  not  kept  them? 
he  asked  himself — again  why  should  he  have 
kept  her  letters  when  he  had  her! 

Curtman  at  last  despaired  of  Jerry's  open- 
ing up  a  conversation  and  took  himself  the 
initiative. 

"  You  take  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  your 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES          99 

work,  Jerry;  those  brasses  look  as  bright  as 
new.  It  takes  you  a  long  time  to  burnish  all 
of  them,  here  in  the  house,  doesn't  it? " 

"  My  land,  Boss,  I  doan  wuk  on  the  rest  uv 
'em  hard  like  I  duz  yourn."  Jerry  smiled  a 
meaning  smile.  "  Now  I  doan  mean  ter  say 
that  I  slight  the  rest  uv  'em,  fer  I  doan.  I 
never  slight  my  wuk,  no  time — never.  But  I 
jest  doan  aim  to  do  nobody  else's  as  good  as 
yourn.  I  jest  never  'gree  with  myseif  that 
I'm  goin'  to  do  the  rest  uv  'em  as  well,  an'  it 
ain't  slightin'  enything  ef  you  haven't  ever 
promised  yerseff  to  do  it  better." 

Jerry  it  seemed  made  mental  reservations 
in  his  labor  contracts! 

"  I  likes  to  give  your  wuk  extra  teches,  Boss, 
an'  it  ain't  'cause  you're  always  givin'  me  sum- 
thin',  nuther.  It's  'cause  I'se  got  a  fam'bly 
pride  in  you.  We  is  connecktet  thru  Miss 
Gertrue,  you  kno'.  When  you  married  Miss 
Gertrue  uv  course  we  had  to  take  you  in,  too. 


100        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

An'  when  you  is  onct  in  our  f  am'bly  you  can't 
git  out." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  interest,  Jerry,"  re- 
plied Morrison.  "  I'm  glad  you  have  it,  and — 
for  the  reason  you  give." 

Jerry  accepted  the  encouragement  and,  re- 
suming his  polishing,  kept  on  intermittently 
with  his  remarks. 

"  Boss,  there's  some  laidees  here  in  this 
house  whut's  got  their  mines  turn  to'ards  you ; 
after  ketchin'  you — them  laidees  from  New 
York." 

"  That's  hard  to  believe,  Jerry." 

"  It's  a  fac',  Boss;  I  kno'  wimen,  leastwise 
I  kno'  somethin'  'bout  'em.  Nobody  doan 
kno'  'em  altogether.  They's  funny — wimen  is. 
You  think  sometimes  you'se  got  'em  by  h'art 
an'  all  uv  a  suddent  they's  gone  off  like  a 
blast  fuse  when  you  ain't  'spectin'  it.  They 
mind  me  uv  a  mule.  I  doan  mean  no  disre- 
spec'  to  the  laidees,  but  they  does.  When  you 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES         101 

ain't  a-lookin'  they  jump  sideways  an'  kick 
up  'bout  somethin'  you  doan  know  whut.  I 
ain't  been  married  sixteen  year  fur  nothin'. 
My  Didamy's  'bout  the  best  'oman  in  the 
worle,  but  she  sho'  do  sometimes  jump  side- 
ways an'  kick  up  over  nuthin'.  Maybe  she 
gits  pisened  with  niggers'  talk  an'  think  I'se 
dun  somethin'  I  ain't.  You  can't  tell." 

"  That  may  be  the  case,"  assented  Morri- 
son. 

"  Now  'bout  these  New  York  laidees,"  con- 
tinued Jerry.  "  One  day  las'  week  I  wuz  in 
tharr  a-cleanin'  they  brasses.  It's  my  rule 
never  to  do  my  wuk  when  the  roomers  are 
occerpents;  but  it  wuz  a  rainy  day  an'  they 
didn't  go  out  that  day,  but  it  wuz  my  reg'lar 
day  fur  they  room  an'  I  didn't  wanter  turn 
out  o'  my  tracks.  Ef  you  turn  out  uv  yer 
tracks  fur  ev'rything,  you  never  get  no- 
wharr.  So  when  I  knock  an'  they  say  *  Come 
in/  I  jest  take  off  my  hat  an'  ask  soff  like  ef 


102        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

I  could  polish  tfyey  brasses.  They  say  *  Yes, 
Sambo.'  I  didn't  instruct  'em  eny  better,  fur 
I  wuzn't  kerrin'  ef  they  did  call  me  '  Sambo ' 
ef  I  got  to  do  my  wuk." 

Jerry  stopped  while  he   gave  some  extra 
rubbing  to  the  tips  about  the  mantel. 
r     "An'    they    wuz    guyin'    one    'nuther    an* 
tellin'  jokes;  though  they  old  enough  to  be 
solemner  than  they  is,  leastwise  the  mother  is. 

!C  They  ask  me  some  questions  'bout  the 
folks  whut  boards  here,  nuthin'  out  uv  the  way ; 
ef  Mrs.  Martin's  little  gurl  wuz  over  the 
so'  thro't  an'  how  wuz  ole  Mr.  Cowen.  Las' 
one  uv  'em  ask  me  ef  you  go  out  much  in 
sassiety.  I  know'd  then  they'd  been  heddin* 
up  to'ads  you.  They  wuz  back  uv  me,  but  I 
could  see  in  the  lookin'  glass  that  they  wuz 
laffin',  low  like,  so  I  couldn't  heyr  'em.  '  He's 
a  han'som  gen'lman,  they  'lowed,  an'  sed  they 
'spec  you'd  be  very  exceptionable  in  sassiety. 

"  '  He  sho'  is  han'some,'  I  sez,  c  an'  would 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         103 

suttenly  be  exceptionable  ef  he  went;  but  he 
doan  go/ 

"  *  Oh,  I  doan  expec'  you  kno',  Sambo,'  sez 
that  tallest  one  whut  wanes  all  them  beads 
roun'  her  neck. 

"  *  Yes,  I  duz,'  I  sez,  '  I  knows  all  'bout  the 
Boss.  He's  my  kin  '! 

"  With  this  they  both  bust  out  laffin'  like 
they  wuz  at  a  circus  an'  me  a  clown.  You  see 
they's  frum  way  off  no'th  yon'er  an'  doan  kno', 
so  I  had  to  explane  to  'em  'bout  the  'lation- 
ship.  '  It  ain't  no  use  fur  no  laidees  to  be 
makin'  up  to  the  Boss,'  I  sez,  *  fur  they  is 
surely  a-wastin'  they  time ' !  Then  they  went 
a-talkin'  'bout  other  things,  but  I  seen  'em 
makin'  eyes  at  one  'nuther  in  the  glass.  They 
didn't  fool  me — I'm  hard  to  fool." 

"  Oh,  well,  I'm  out  of  the  question,  Jerry; 
they  would  not  think  seriously  of  me.  They 
have  too  much  sense,  too  much  principle,  too, 
I  hope." 


104         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

"  I  dunno ;  it  ain't  ev'rybody  whut's  got 
both  uv  'em,  sense  an'  princ'ple  both — enyway 
when  they's  thinkin'  'bout  marryin'.  You  kin 
jest  notice  an'  see  ef  I  ain't  right.  You  watch 
that  one  whut  wears  that  long  string  uv  white 
beads." 

"  Gems." 

"  Is  they  gems?  I  dunno.  I  dunno  gems 
when  I  see  em!  " 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Curtman  to  himself, 
"  there  are  other  people  in  the  world  who  don't 
know  gems  when  they  see  them! " 

The  following  day  when  Morrison  returned 
from  business  he  found  his  colored  friend 
standing  at  his  door. 

"  I  jest  waitin'  fur  you,  Boss." 

"  So  I  see,"  answered  Morrison.  "  Come 
in,"  he  continued,  opening  the  door  and  pre- 
ceding him.  "  What  can  I  do  for  you, 
Jerry?" 

"  Now  you  kno',  Boss,  I'm  the  las'  pussun 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES         105 

in  the  wurl,  the  very  las'  pussun,  to  hurry  up 
enybody  'bout  a  present.  I'm  a  gen'lman  ef 
I  am  a  nigger.  But  it's  this  way ;  you  sed  you 
had  some  close  I  might  have,  an'  I  jest  thot  ef 
it  suit  you  I'd  come  an'  take  'em  out  uv  yer 
way." 

"Certainly,  Jerry,  certainly;  I  don't  know 
what  I've  been  thinking  of,  not  to  have  given 
them  to  you  before.  It  was  careless  of  me, 
very  careless ;  but  my  wits  go  *  wool  gather- 
ing '  these  days.  I'm  getting  old  and  doted 
before  I'm  forty.  There  they  are,  hanging 
to  the  right  in  the  wardrobe." 

Jerry  took  down  the  garments  indicated. 
"  Well,  this  is  suttenly  a  fine  lot  o'  close  you 
give  me,  Boss,  an'  I  sho  am  obleeged."  And 
the  expression  of  his  face  corroborated  his 
statement. 

"  But  it's  this  way,  Boss,  an*  you  mus'  un- 
derstan'  that  I  ain't  a-criticisin',  but  I  do  wish 
you  hadn't  fell  off  like  you  is.  Your  close 


106        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

use  to  fit  me  jest  like  they's  made  for  me,  an* 
I  wuz  the  bes'-dressed  col'd  gen'lman  in  town! 
But  now  it's  es  much  es  I  kin  do  to  git  into  the 
coat  and  vest,  an'  Didamy,  she  has  to  splice  the 
pants  in  the  back." 

"  Yes,  I've  lost  flesh." 

'  You  remember  that  han'some  gray  coat 
you  give  me  las'  spring?  " 

"  I  can't  recall  it  now,  Jerry." 

'  Well,  you  may  disremem'er  it,  but  I  doan. 
I  never  kin.  It  wuz  so  tite  on  me  that  Jim 
Taylor — Jim  whut  waits  on  you  in  the  dinin'- 
room — sed  he'd  give  me  one  he  had  fur  it. 
Swap!  He  'lowed  some  white  man  give  him 
his'n.  I  doan  kno'  whether  he  did  or  not,  they 
wuz  nuthin'  but  cheap  han'-me-downs.  It 
makes  me  mad  ev'ry  time  I  think  uv  how  that 
Jim  Taylor  cheat  me  in  that  trade.  He  never 
had  sich  a  coat  on  his  back  in  all  his  born  days 
as  the  one  I  let  him  have,  an'  the  one  I 
got  frum  him  wuz  a  sight;  it  wuz  pos'tive 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES         107 

redicilis.  I  look  like  a  nigger  ev'ry  time  I  put 
it  on!" 

''  Well,  I  hope  you  will  fare  better  in  your 
next  exchange,  if  you  find  one  necessary." 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Boss,  ef  you  wuz  to  have  ez 
good  suppers  ez  I  had  las'  night  you'd  suttenly 
pick  up.  I  wouldn't  have  no  more  tr'uble 
wearin'  your  close." 

'  Were  you  at  a  swell  function  last  night, 
Jerry?" 

"  Land  no ;  they  doan  fatten  you  at  'em 
what  you  say.  I  et  at  Miss  Gertrue's !  " 

Morrison  looked  up  from  the  evening  paper 
which  he  had  opened  and  begun  reading. 
"  Did  you  take  supper  there?  Did  she  have  a 
party? "  he  asked. 

"  No,  it  wuzn't  no  party — jest  four  or  five, 
an'  Lizerjane  got  Didamy  come  help  her. 
The  butler  an'  the  housemaid  doan  kno' 
nuthin',  leastwise  they  doan  let  on  like  they; 
duz,  an'  ez  fur  the  coachman,  he  won't  tech 


108        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

nuthin'  but  them  bosses  an'  the  cair'ge.  But 
you  'member  C'lumbus." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  Columbus." 

"  But  he  sho'  do  keep  that  cair'ge  clean  an' 
them  bosses  lookin'  like  satin.  I  kin  say  that 
fur  him.  An'  them  chains  on  the  harness  he 
jest  rubs  'em  till  they  looks  like  gole.  But 
Miss  Gertrue  pays  him  miff  fer  it;  she  say 
'  C'lumbus  got  to  live.'  You  kno'  Miss 
Gertrue ! 

"  But  that  supper,"  resumed  Jerry  after  a 
little  pause,  "  it  wuzn't  none  of  your  caperer's 
suppers  wharr  they  counts  so  many  hedd  uv 
folks  an'  so  many  plates  uv  vittels,  an'  ef  one 
more  pussun  wuz  to  come,  tharr  wouldn't  be 
nuthin'  fur  him  to  eat.  No,  sir,  Miss  Gertrue 
doan  have  that  kine.  There  wuz  plenty  fur 
ev'rybody,  an'  it  wuz  good  to  boot.  Whut 
Didamy  an'  Lizerjane  doan  kno'  'bout  cookin' 
ain't  wuth  kno'in'.  I  lived  with  a  caperer  onct, 
an'  he  jest  fix  bare  miff  for  sich  an'  sich  com- 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES        109 

p'ny,  but  Miss  Gertrue  jest  give  you  a  blank 
cart  to  git  things  t'gether  with,  an'  tharr's 
plenty  fur  ev'rybody  an'  more  too.  Them 
caperers  can't  make  nuthin'  tase  right  nuther. 
How  kin  they? — they  never  has  no  cook — -they 
jest  has  a  chef,  an'  a  chef  doan  kno'  how  to 
cook!  No,  it  wuzn't  no  party,"  Jerry  con- 
cluded, as  he  reached  the  door,  "  jest  Miss'er 
Collins  an'  two  er  three  mo'." 

"Mr.  Collins?"  asked  Morrison,  "  Gran- 
ville  Collins  of  New  York?  Is  he  here 
again?  " 

'  Yes,  sir;  he's  bin  here  more'n  a  week — 
right  here  in  the  hotel.  I  thot  you  seen  him." 

This  announcement  was  for  Morrison  food 
for  thought,  or  rather,  for  misery.  He  read 
no  more  in  the  paper.  It  was  past  midnight 
before  he  went  to  bed,  and  later  still  when  he 
went  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER    IX 

"  The  frost  gleams  where  the  flowers  have  been." 

CUETMAN  sat  through  the  deepening  twilight 
in  one  of  the  city's  breathing-places,  one  of 
the  down-town  squares,  whose  grass  and  trees 
were  a  pleasing  surprise  to  the  passengers  on 
the  cars  that  rattled  by  during  the  day,  and 
whose  rustic  chairs  were  a  continual  suggestion 
of  rest  to  weary  pedestrians,  both  day  and 
night.  He  seemed  oblivious  to  his  surround- 
ings, but  he  was  not;  he  saw  the  unkempt 
children  tumbling  about  on  the  grass  not  far 
off;  and  near  by,  belated  workmen  with  their 
dinnerpails  beside  them,  resting  and  talking 
before  resuming  their  homeward  jaunt.  In 
fact,  he  had  come  purposely  to  this  little  square, 

bearing  throughout  its  length  and  breadth  the 

no 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES        111 

stamp  of  democracy,  to  be  free  from  the  in- 
trusion of  his  friends.  He  was  not  in  the 
mood  to  entertain  them  to-night,  and  was  loath 
to  have  his  reputation  for  good-comradeship 
suffer.  Though  one  may  have  the  wit,  it  is 
not  always  easy  to  play  the  role  of  Yorick! 

He  sat  on,  until  the  laborers  had  resumed 
their  trudge,  the  unkempt  children  crept  off  to 
their  homes,  and  the  lights  along  the  sidewalks, 
in  shops,  and  apartments  had  been  set  aglow. 
Among  the  advertisements,  that  flashed  out  in 
little  burning  disks  along  the  street  opposite, 
was  one  that  arrested  his  attention,  announc- 
ing in  revolving  letters,  "  Art  Loan  Exhibit." 
He  recalled  now,  having  heard  this  exhibit 
talked  of,  by  the  men  about  him  that  took 
interest  in  such  matters,  and  also  recalled  that 
he  had  resolved  to  go — for  a  purpose — and  was 
glad  to  find  it  now  in  progress,  and  within  such 
easy  reach.  He  arose  at  once,  and  with  the 
firm,  quick  step  of  one  who  has  something  more 


112        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

in  view,  than  strolling  through  rooms  of 
pictures  and  bric-a-brac,  crossed  the  street. 
He  ascended  the  steps,  but  stopped  a  moment 
on  the  landing. 

"  Is  a  card  of  invitation  necessary? "  he 
asked. 

"  Only  a  dollar,"  replied  the  doorkeeper. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that — I  feared  you  were 
exclusive,  that  you  were  keeping  out  the 
canaille/' 

;'  The  dollar  will  do  that,"  replied  the  door- 
keeper. 

Curtman  was  not  much  interested  in  the  dis- 
play about  him.  He  might  have  been  more 
so,  had  he  not  had  something  on  his  mind. 
He  examined  nothing  critically,  keeping  close 
to  the  door,  that  he  might  see  the  people  come 
in.  He  was  evidently  looking  for  someone, 
whose  non-appearance  was  a  disappointment. 
Later  on  he  sauntered  through  the  rooms, 
the  look  of  quest  still  on  his  face. 


OUT  OF  THE   ASHES         113 

Presently  he  found  himself  behind  Ger- 
trude and  Mrs.  Gilbert.  The  look  of  quest 
was  gone!  They  were  examining  some  vases. 
Gertrude  reached  out  her  hand  toward  one  of 
them,  and  as  she  did  so  he  saw  the  flash  of  a 
diamond  on  her  finger. 

"  Is  that  the  ring  I  gave  her? "  he  asked 
himself  eagerly.  "  Can  it  be  possible  she  still 
wears  that — I  must  see  at  all  hazards."  And 
drawing  as  close  as  he  dared,  suiting  his 
gait  to  theirs,  followed  on,  moving  when  they 
moved,  halting  when  they  halted.  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert fell  a  little  to  the  rear,  and  after  a  while 
drifted  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  It  was 
Curtman's  chance  to  get  nearer  still  to  Ger- 
trude, and  see  again  the  ring.  She  was  lean- 
ing over,  carefully  inspecting  the  painting 
on  an  easel  just  within  the  cordon — evi- 
dently not  missing  Mrs.  Gilbert  from  her 
side. 

'  Yes,  this  is  the  picture  of  which  I've  been 


114        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

telling  you,"  she  said,  and,  turning,  looked 
directly  in — Curtman's  eyes. 

For  a  moment  she  was  disconcerted.  "  I — 
I — thought  you  were  my  friend,"  she  said,  and 
turning  back,  resumed  her  walk. 

"  Oh,  I  am  your  friend — I  am  your  friend, 
Gertrude,"  were  the  words  that  struggled  in 
his  heart,  but  they  did  not  cross  his  lips.  He 
hesitated,  and  in  the  brief  moment  of  hesi- 
tancy his  opportunity  was  gone.  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert had  rejoined  Gertrude,  and  they  were 
walking  away. 

He  stood  looking  after  them  in  a  help- 
less, dazed  way  until  they  were  lost  in  the 
crowd. 

"My  opportunity!  my  opportunity!"  he 
said  half  aloud,  "  and — and  it  is  gone,  and  she 
is  gone.  Why  did  I  not  say,  '  I  am  your 
friend,  Gertrude — it  is  no  mistake  you  make 
— I  am  your  friend '?  "  He  turned,  faint,  and 
leaned  for  support  on  something  at  his  side. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         115 

It  was  the  pedestal  of  a  bronze  urn.  "  Be 
careful,  sir !  "  said  the  guard,  who  came  along 
that  instant — "you  are  blocking  the  way, 
move  on." 

And  Curtman  did  move  on — through  rooms 
that  might  have  been  empty  barracks  or  rude 
caravansaries,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
Lost  on  him  were  the  bronzes,  sculptures,  and 
paintings  the  dilettanti  had  for  weeks  been 
collecting  and  arranging.  When  he  did  real- 
ize his  surroundings,  the  impression  made  was 
that  of  a  confused  bazaar,  over  which  streamed 
the  radiance  of  many  a  garish  chandelier — a 
stifling  place  that  he  hastened  to  leave. 

On  reaching  the  open  air  he  walked  on  and 
on  as  one  in  a  dream — block  after  block  in  the 
very  opposite  direction  to  that  he  should  have 
taken  for  his  room.  Somehow,  his  feet  in  his 
abstraction,  traversed  the  path  along  which  it 
was  wont  to  journey  of  mornings  to  his  busi- 
ness house,  When  within  a  few  yards  of  it, 


116        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

realizing  his  whereabouts,  he  turned  toward 
his  hotel,  but  seeing  two  men  emerging  from 
the  door,  stepped  into  the  shadow  of  a  pro- 
jecting wall  to  wait  until  they  were  gone. 

"  Stebbs  and  Larkins,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  They  have  been  looking  over  the  books,  I 
suppose — why  could  they  have  not  done  it  in 
the  day,  in  my  presence?  I  would  not  have 
cared." 

A  report  of  the  enterprise  in  which  these  two 
men  were  engaged,  the  commencement  of  a 
similar  house  to  that  of  Curtman  &  Co.,  had 
reached  him,  as  well  as  the  fact,  that  they  were 
arranging  to  take  into  their  employ  some  of 
the  best  of  his  force,  and  divert  to  themselves 
some  of  the  supplies  he  was  accustomed  to 
receive.  He  had  never  made  use  of  the  in- 
formation brought  him,  direct  and  reliable 
though  it  was. 

"  Let  it  go,"  he  had  said ;  "  we  shall  see  what 
it  will  come  to." 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        117 

So,  to-night,  when  he  saw  them  emerging 
from  the  building,  in  a  covert,  secret  way,  he 
felt  no  surprise,  and,  strange  to  say,  no  resent- 
ment. They  walked  past  without  seeing  him 
— this  was  all  he  cared  for  now,  and  when  they 
were  gone  he  retraced  his  steps,  this  time 
continuing  to  his  room. 

To-night's  were  the  saddest  of  his  many  sad 
reveries.  Somehow  he  felt  as  if  an  oppor- 
tunity for  reconciliation  with  Gertrude  had 
been  given  him,  and  he  had  thrown  it  away,  a 
time  in  which  to  plead,  and  he  had  remained 
silent.  Her  voice  and  words,  "  I  thought 
you  were  my  friend,"  kept  ringing  in  his  ears 
• — he  could  not  silence  them,  nor  banish  from 
his  memory  the  expression  in  her  eyes  when  she 
looked  in  his  and  said,  "  I  thought  you  were 
my  friend."  "Oh,  Gertrude!  I  am  your 
friend,  no  matter  though  you  may  think  me 
your  deadliest  foe.  I  am  not,  I  am  your 
friend — I  am  more,  I  am  your  husband — you 


118        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

are  my  wife.  Oh,  why  did  I  not  say  all  this 
to  her  there  and  then.  What  matter  if  the 
gaping  crowd  did  see  me.  Why  did  I  not 
clasp  her  in  my  arms,  regardless  of  their  jeers 
or  tears.  What  are  they,  or  the  whole  world 
to  me,  compared  with  her?  .  .  .  But  she 
might  have  repulsed  me ;  she  might  have  thrown 
me  away  with  the  scorn  I  deserve.  No  matter, 
I  would  have  tried,  I  would  have  done  my 
best;  this  regret  would  not  have  been  added 
to  my  woe.  And,"  here  his  features,  tense 
with  pain,  relaxed  into  content  and  peace, 
"  she  might  have  forgiven  me — and  to  have 
her  forgiveness  is  worth  a  thousand  efforts. 
Gertrude's  forgiveness!  I  know  what  her 
forgiveness  means — a  sincerity,  real  and 
whole-souled,  not  shallow  words.  I  know  how 
once,  when  she  had  been  deeply  wronged,  she 
accepted  again  to  her  respect  and  love  the 
offenders.  I  counseled  hauteur,  and  the  bare 
exchange  of  courtesies !  '  Not  so,'  she  pro- 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         119 

tested,  '  not  so ;  forgiveness  must  be  entire,  sin- 
cere, and  everlasting,  like  Christ's.' ' 

Some  leaden  streaks  of  the  coming  dawn, 
had  crept  up  in  the  far-off  horizon  before 
Curtman  lay  down  to  rest.  His  sleep,  for  all  it 
was  calm  and  sound,  kept  him  no  longer  in 
bed  than  usual — his  accustomed  hour  found 
him  in  his  accustomed  place,  his  hand  steady 
with  his  pen,  his  mind  clear  in  its  reasoning. 
He  had  more  than  his  usual  business  to  trans- 
act that  day,  but  got  through  with  it  all,  satis- 
factorily to  himself  and  to  all  concerned. 
Larkins  and  Stebbs  had  an  interview  with  him 
— it  was  not  what  they  had  expected,  but  kept 
within  the  lines  that  he  had  planned  it  should. 
Their  project  had  failed,  and  they  had  come 
to  explain — to  forestall  any  disclosure  that 
might  be  made,  keeping  in  the  background,  of 
course,  all  they  had  done  derogatory  to  his 
interests.  They  had  dreaded  the  interview, 
expecting  to  find  Curtman  uncompromising 


120        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

and  austere,  but  he  was  neither;  on  the  con- 
trary, approachable  and  kindly.  It  was  a 
natural  thing,  he  said,  for  a  man  to  commence 
for  himself  a  business  similar  to  the  one  with 
which  he  was  familiar — he  had  done  it  himself, 
he  said,  moreover,  had  kept  on  good  terms  with 
his  old  employers,  and  they  had  both  suc- 
ceeded. "  If  the  men  withdrawing  go  about 
it  in  an  honorable  way  and  do  the  old  firm  no 
injury,  nothing  disparaging  can  be  said  or 
thought."  Stebbs  and  Larkins  both  looked 
down  at  this  juncture. 

In  a  little  while  the  interview  was  over. 
They  had  counted  upon  surrender  of  their 
stock  and  dismissal  for  themselves.  On  the 
contrary,  they  were  allowed  to  remain  stock- 
holders, and  they  themselves  were  retained  on 
the  same  good  salaries  they  had  heretofore 
received. 

They  looked  at  each  other  as  they  walked 
away. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        121 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  Stebbs? " 
asked  Larkins. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  what  to 
think.  I  was  looking  to  be  fired." 

"  I  guess  you  were.  I  was  looking  for  us 
both  to  be  fired — stock  recalled  and  every- 
thing!" 

"  What's  come  over  Curtman?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  I  don't  know." 

"  Curtman  is  a  strange  man — he  has  his 
faults." 

'  YeSj  and  he  has  some  things  that  are  not 
faults." 

Curtman's  physical  exhaustion  was  greater 
than  ordinary  that  night,  and  yet  he  sat  longer 
than  was  his  wont  by  the  window  and  said 
more  than  was  his  custom  to  his  diary.  .  .  . 

"  I  am  tired  and  wearied  with  my  work  and 
cares.  How  often  in  the  days  gone  by,  when 
I  came  home  thus,  have  I  lain  with  my  head 
in  her  lap,  her  hand  with  its  gentle  touch 


122         OUT   OF    THE   ASHES 

smoothing  my  brow,  her  eyes  looking  down 
into  mine,  reading  there  a  love  as  deep  and 
pure  as  her  own.  I  can  see  the  look  in  her 
eyes,  I  can  feel  the  touch  of  her  hand  and  her 
kisses  pressed  on  lips  that  had  never  lied  to 
her.  These  all  come  back  to  me — again  and 
again  they  come,  in  the  garish  day  and  the 
silent  night.  Sometimes  she  read  to  me,  her 
fingers  turning  deftly  the  pages,  to  the  pas- 
sages I  liked,  her  voice  with  skillful  modula- 
tion and  well-placed  accent  bringing  out  the 
beauty  of  the  lines  before  her.  She  did  not 
know — we  neither  of  us  knew  then — that  it 
was  of  me,  not  Childe  Harold,  she  read: 

"  The  tree  will  wither  long  before  it  fall; 
The  hull  drives  on  though  mast  and  sail  be  torn." 

"  The  day  drags  through  though  storms  keep  out  the  sun, 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on." 

bloodless  with  sleepless  sorrow  aches, 
Yet  withers  on  till  all  without  is  old, 
Showing  no  visible  sign,  for  such  things  are  untold." 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         123 

"  Fame 

May  for  a  moment  soothe,  it  cannot  slake 
The  fever  of  vain  longing,  and  the  name 
So  honored  but  assumes  a  bitterer  claim !  " 

"  Yes,  r  The  fever  of  vain  longing! ' 
"  Oh,  Gertrude!  Gertrude!  will  you  not  come 
down  from  your  pinnacle  of  happiness  and 
peace  to  save  me?  Are  you  so  unlike  the  God 
you  worship  that  there  is  with  you  never 
forgiveness? " 


CHAPTER    X 

"  How  exquisite  thy  voice  would  come, 
My  darling,  on  this  lonely  air !  " 

A  FEW  days  later,  Morrison's  solicitude  and 
sorrow  were  renewed  on  seeing  Collins  in 
Gertrude's  company. 

They  were  on  the  street  walking  slowly,  so 
earnestly  engaged  in  the  topic  under  con- 
sideration— whatever  it  was — that  they  passed 
without  seeing  him. 

Tuesday:  "I  passed  Gertrude  on  the 
street  to-day — so  close  I  could  have  touched 
her  with  my  outstretched  hand,  hut  she  did 
not  see  me.  No  wonder;  she  was  with  Gran- 
ville  Collins  and  so  had  eyes  for  no  one  else! 
.  .  .  What  can  they  have  of  mutual  inter- 
est, so  intense  that  they  must  needs  go  along 
the  highway,  oblivious  to  the  world  around 
them?  .  .  .  Of  course  it  is  no  concern  of 

124 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         125 

mine,  no  more  mine  than  the  veriest  stranger's 
in  the  throng  they  passed,  but  I  can  but  won- 
der what  it  means.  ...  I  am  disappointed, 
sorely  disappointed — in  Gertrude.  I  have 
come  to  believe  that  she  will  marry.  It  grieves 
me  beyond  expression  and  it — shocks  me. 
...  I  would  not  have  believed  this  of  Ger- 
trude; it  lowers  her  in  my  regard,  and  yet,  I 
love  her!  Can  it  be  possible  I  must  love  her 
on  and  she  married  to  another?  .  .  .  She 
stoops  to  marry.  .  .  .  What  can  she  find 
in  Granville  Collins  to  admire,  to  love?  .  .  . 
I  thought  I  had  reached  the  lowest  rung  of 
distress,  but  we  can  never  be  sure  of  that. 
This  is  another  downward  step  for  me,  into 
what  seems  now,  an  unfathomable  abyss.  I 
long  ago  discovered  that  I  had  not  wholly 
resigned  her;  that  somehow,  in  some  sense,  I 
still  believed  her  mine;  some  subtle,  indescrib- 
able tie  I  fancied  still  bound  us.  To  relinquish 
this  is  more  than  grief  or  sorrow,  it  is  woe." 


126        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

Thursday :  "  Mrs.  Bramlet  is  with  Ger- 
trude now ;  I  saw  them  driving  to-day.  Some 
young  girl  was  with  them.  These  I  suppose 
were  the  other  guests  at  her  dinner.  ...  I 
cannot  say  Mrs.  Bramlet  refused  to  speak  to 
me.  She  may  not  have  seen  me,  but  I  believe 
she  did.  Gertrude  gave  me  her  usual  saluta- 
tion. How  could  she  when  she  is  on  the  eve 
of  marrying  another  man!  ...  I  cannot 
wish  her  happiness.  ...  I  wish,  indeed,  that 
I  could  hate  her ! "  .  .  . 

Friday:  "  What  an  outrage  to  have  made 
such  an  entry  as  that  of  yesterday,  *  I  wish 
I  could  hate  her  ' ! — to  have  said  such  a  thing 
to  my  diary!  No,  I  will  not  erase  it,  I  will 
let  it  stay — to  turn  to  and  read  some  day 
when  I  am  tempted  to  think  better  of  myself 
than  I  should.  It  will  remind  me  what  I 
really  am;  what  manner  of  metal  is  beneath 
the  polish,  what  kind  of  wood  under  the 
veneering !  .  .  . " 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         127 

Morrison's  life,  with  its  multitudinous  busi- 
ness cares  and  consequent  weariness,  which 
precluded,  (had  he  been  disposed  to  their  prac- 
tice), all  strenuous  or  athletic  sports,  had 
fallen  into  one  of  treadmill  routine.  The 
routine  was  seldom  varied — the  work  of  the 
business  house  during  the  day;  his  dinner  and 
walk  in  the  evening;  at  night  his  smoke  and 
reverie  in  the  hall,  whose  window  opened 
toward  Gertrude's  home,  where  the  light  of 
her  bedroom  lamp  glowed  like  a  star.  He  had 
almost  come  to  consider  this  special  spot  in 
the  hostelry  his  private  property,  his  boudoir. 
Others  seemed  to  so  regard  it,  too,  and 
seldom  interrupted  him  in  the  enjoyment  of  its 
privacy.  Sometimes,  the  children  in  the  hotel, 
would  venture  up  for  a  sideways  glance  at 
the  man,  who  so  silently  and  quietly  sat  gazing 
out  of  the  window — at  nothing  it  seemed  to 
them;  or  now  and  then  some  new  guest  would 
stroll  up,  and  for  a  moment  look  out  on  the 


128        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

gloaming,  pierced  with  a  thousand  needle- 
points of  light,  revealing,  though  indistinctly, 
the  spires  of  churches,  and  domes  and  turrets 
of  public,  or  ambitious  business  houses.  As 
he  sat  to-night  at  the  window,  his  thoughts 
were  with  his  heart,  and  both,  like  the  dying 
gladiator's,  were  with  the  woman  he  loved. 
The  rude  barbarians  and  their  Dacian  mother 
were  no  dearer  to  the  poor  captive,  "  butchered 
to  make  a  Roman  holiday,"  than  was  she  who 
sat  beside  that  lamp  to  him.  What  was  she 
doing?  or  saying?  or  reading?  Did  she  ever 
think  of  him? 

From  such  musing  as  this  Curtman  was 
suddenly  aroused  by  a  woman's  voice. 

Could  it  be  possible,  that  in  his  reveries  he 
had  dwelt  so  intently  on  Gertrude  that  his 
thoughts,  penetrating  the  space  between,  had 
obtruded  on  her  brain — that  she  had  called 
his  name,  and  through  all  the  intervening  dis- 
tance he  had  heard! 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         129 

It  was  a  sweet  but  brief  illusion;  he  heard 
his  name  again,  more  distinctly  called  this 
time  and  closer  than  before.  He  turned  and 
saw  approaching — almost  at  his  chair,  Helen 
Landray. 

Her  face  was  covered  with  smiles,  as  she 
neared  him,  with  extended  hands. 

'  Well,  Mr.  Curtman,"  she  exclaimed  with 
mock  reproachfulness,  "  you  are  difficult  to 
find;  the  servant  has  twice  brought  my  card 
back  from  your  room  reporting  you  not  in. 
So  I  thought  I  would  look  you  up  myself,  and 
behold,  I  have  found  you.  When  a  woman 
makes  a  quest  she  makes  a  find.  What  are 
you  doing  away  up  here  in  this  little  lonesome, 
out-of-the-way  place,  all  by  yourself?  " 

Morrison  neither  arose  nor  offered  his 
hand. 

"  I  can  sit  down,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  draw- 
ing from  its  desuetude  in  an  angle  near  by  a 
chair,  and  seating  herself. 


130        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

"If  you  choose,"  he  replied. 

"  And  a  cat  can  look  at  a  king? "  she  asked 
demurely. 

'  You  don't  seem  a  bit  glad  to  see  me,"  she 
continued  after  she  had  given  him  time  to 
respond  to  her  pleasantry  and  he  had  not 
responded,  "  but  men  have  their  humors  and 
tantrums,  just  like  the  women,  and  they  have 
to  be  petted  out  of  them — just  like  the 
women." 

There  was  another  silence,  which  Morrison 
broke  this  time. 

:<  When  did  you  and  Varnon  marry?  Soon 
after  I  saw  you  in  New  York,  I  suppose.'* 

"Oh!  we  did  not — marry  at  all,"  she  hesi- 
tated. "  I  thought  you  had  heard " 

"  I  heard  that  Varnon  was  broke.  I  didn't 
think  of  it,  but  might  have  known  the  rest — 
it's  the  way  with  women  of  your  sort." 

"  Oh,  it  was  not  that ;  it  was  not  the  money 
at  all." 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         131 

"  He  left  you,  then,  of  his  own  sweet  will?  " 

"  No." 

"  It's  still  a  running  engagement?  If  so 
I  advise  you  to  run  him  down,  and  marry  him, 
as  soon  as  you  can." 

"  I  never  see  him;  I  never  care  to  see  him. 
It  is  all  over  with  us.  I  found  it  impossible 
to  get  my  own  consent  to  marry  him.  Oh, 
it's  hard,  hard  to  be  tied  to  somebody  who  is 
not  thoroughly  en  rapport  with  you." 

"  Well,  you  have  indeed  set  for  yourself 
a  difficult  task — to  find  someone  thoroughly 
en  rapport  with  you,  somebody  that  will  stay. 
Or  is  staying  a  requisite  with  you?  " 

"  I  want  the  man  I  love ;  I  have  come  for 
him  now."  She  spoke  intently,  and  leaning 
forward  placed  her  hands  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  '  You  know  that  love  never  dies." 

'  That  is  true,  love  never  dies,  but  lust  does ; 
like  the  worm  that  creeps  up  out  of  the  mud  in 
which  it  was  hatched,  it  lives  out  its  little  day 


132         OUT   OF    THE   ASHES 

and  is  gone ;  but  love,  like  a  star,  glows  on  un- 
dimmed;  even  though  hidden  behind  a  cloud, 
it  is  still  there." 

Mrs.  Landray  removed  her  hands  from  the 
chair  and  folded  them  in  her  lap.  There  was 
a  little  silence,  during  which  they  both  looked 
out  into  the  darkness,  where  here  and  there, 
sometimes  singly,  sometimes  in  clusters,  the 
lights  glittered  like  fireflies. 

She  had  not  looked  for  this  at  his  hands. 
Her  reception  was  far  from  what  she  had 
anticipated.  She  could  have  made  cutting 
rejoinders  in  plenty  if  she  had  chosen;  she 
lacked  neither  the  cleverness,  nor  material  out 
of  which  to  fashion  them.  But  what  end 
would  it  serve?  she  asked  herself;  why  jeopard- 
ize what  little  hold  she  had  on  him  by  a  return 
in  kind  of  his  sarcasm?  It  would  be  dear- 
bought  gratification  of  her  anger. 

No,  she  would  not  make  the  replies  at  her 
tongue's  end  no  matter  how  richly  merited. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         133 

Nor  would  she  be  overcordial  at  present;  this 
was  not  the  time;  she  might  be  later  on,  when 
his  mood  was  different.  She  would  make  her- 
self agreeable,  as  any  other  woman  might,  on 
non-committal  topics. 

This  resolution  was  crystallized,  in  the 
silence  that  followed  his  caustic  speech. 

"It  is  five  years  since  I  lived  here,"  she 
began  bravely  with  her  role,  "  but  the  time  has 
gone  by  rapidly.  ...  It  has  gone  rapidly 
with  you,  too,  has  it  not?" 

"  No ;  it  has  dragged  through  centuries  with 
me." 

"  And  there  have  been  many  changes." 

"  Yes." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"  How  interesting  your  coffee  plantations 
must  be!  I  have  often  fancied  it  would  be 
delightful  to  make  a  little  journey  through 
Central  America,  a  land  teeming  with  such 
varied  interests;  the  curios  and  prehistoric 


134         OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

relics  for  the  serious-minded  traveler,  and  the 
present  strange  people  with  their  curious 
methods  of  existence  for  those  of  lighter 


vein." 


Another  pause. 

"  I  hear  that  you  have  heen  wonderfully 
prosperous  in  your  business  there;  that  your 
Mexican  employees  have  responded  to  your 
generosity  with  excellent  work,  and  that '  Don 
Curtman  '  is  now  a  millionaire!  " 

"Yes." 

This  is  the  reply  he  made  her ;  to  himself  he 
said,  "  But  you  will  never  get  the  use  of  a 
dollar  of  it,"  which  statement  was  erroneous, 
and  goes  to  show  how  little  we  can  tell  what  is 
coming  to  pass;  how  our  affirmations  often 
become  negations,  for  she  did  get  the  use  of 
many  dollars  of  it! 

"  Well,  what  are  you  doing  with  yourself 
this  summer,  Mr.  Curtman? "  she  began 
again  with  persistent  bravery.  "  Surely  you 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         135 

are  not  going  to  stay  the  season  through  here 
in  the  city  with  the  heat  and  mosquitoes?  We 
are  going  to  the  seashore,  a  delightful  party 
of  us;  some  of  them  are  here  with  me  now. 
Join  us  at  Atlantic  City  next  month,  won't 
you?  You  remember  the  summer  we  met 
there  once?  the  swimming,  the  yachting,  the 
suppers?  Oh!  it  was  grand.  The  seashore 
is  the  place  for  me ;  the  throngs  of  people,  the 
salty  air,  and  the  surf  inviting  you  to  a  wrestle. 
You  are  a  fine  swimmer  and  enjoy  all  this. 

Say  you  will  come.     Surely 

'  You  ask  me  where  I  will  spend  my  sum- 
mer? "  Curtman  interrupted.  "  Right  here, 
in  this  city,  and  a  great  deal  of  it  right  here 
at  this  window.  Not  a  night  goes  by,  that  I 
do  not  sit  and  look  at  that  light  as  long  as  it 
burns — that  light  to  the  right  of  that  group," 
and  with  outstretched  hand  he  indicated  the 
pale,  rosy  glow,  that  in  the  perspective,  was 
some  yards  distant  from  its  nearest  neighbors. 


136        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

'  That  is  her  lamp,  the  lonely  lamp  by  which 
my  wife  sits." 

Mrs.  Landray  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion, for  all  she  had  promised  herself  to  leave 
unnoticed  his  insults.  He  had  placed  himself 
so  defiantly  in  reach  of  her  lance,  and  she  saw 
so  plainly  the  crevice  in  his  armor! 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  it  is  not  such  a  lonely 
lamp  after  all;  maybe — Other  gentlemen  have 
admired  your  wife " 

Curtman  turned  on  her  fiercely,  a  glare  in 
his  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  mean!  What  are  you  say- 
ing!" he  exclaimed.  "But  I  forget;  you 
cannot — it  is  impossible  for  you  to  understand 
her.  There  is  nothing  compromising  even  in 
appearances  with  her,  much  less  in  her  life." 
After  a  pause  he  continued,  his  voice  still  tense 
with  anger. 

"  I  repeat  it,  you  cannot  understand  her — 
she  is  as  pure  as  a  ray  of  sunshine." 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         137 

*  You  rush  to  conclusions  not  thought  of," 
said  Mrs.  Landry  calmly ;  "  there  would  be 
nothing  compromising  if  her  husband  were 
sitting  with  her  by  her  lamp,  would  there?  I 
heard  she  was  to  be  married,  and  the  ceremony 
may  have  been  performed  for  all  we  know; 
neither  of  us  would  have  been  invited  to  the 
wedding.  I  have  heard  she  was  to  marry 
Granville  Collins.  Your  wife  may  now  be 
Mrs.  Collins — the  protection  of  her  fair  name 
may  belong  to  another  man!  " 

The  fierceness  died  from  his  face — the 
glare  in  his  eyes  faded  to  humility.  He  had 
no  longer  the  look  of  a  beast  at  bay,  but  of  one 
wounded  to  its  death.  She  saw  that  the  lance 
had  entered  the  crevice  and  that  she  had  carried 
the  day,  but  did  not  exult ;  on  the  contrary,  she 
ignored  her  victory.  Her  old  philosophy  re- 
turned. Where  the  good  in  keeping  up  a 
warfare?  She  had  not  abandoned  all  hope — 
she  might  yet  ensnare  him.  But  to  do  this, 


138         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

lance  and  dagger  must  be  laid  aside,  and  she 
must  be  amiable — always,  and  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, amiable. 

"  Now,  think  it  over  and  join  us  at  Atlantic 
City.  I  shall  expect  you,"  she  said,  and  as 
she  swept  down  the  hall  saw  to  it  that  a  smile 
was  on  her  face.  She  looked  back  over  her 
shoulder,  so  that  Curtman,  if  he  should  turn, 
would  see  the  smile,  and  know  that  she  bore 
him  no  unkindly  grudge ! 

A  large  mirror,  reaching  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing, above  which  blazed  a  cluster  of  electric 
bulbs,  made  a  panel  of  the  wall,  past  which  she 
must  go,  on  her  way  to  her  room.  She  paused 
in  front  of  it,  and  regarded  herself  with  un- 
stinted admiration.  No  wonder!  Its  gilded 
rim  had  never,  for  all  it  had  hung  there  many 
a  year,  framed  in  a  prettier  picture.  She 
came  nearer,  almost  close  enough  for  the 
smiling  lips  to  touch  their  duals. 

"  All  is  not  lost  that  is  in  danger,  Helen," 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         139 

she  said,  nodding  to  the  woman  in  whose  eyes 
she  was  looking;  "there  is  something  good  in 
store  for  you  yet;  there  are  possibilities  in 
Curtman  for  all  he  is  so  glum,  and  if  he  should 
never  return,  there  is  many  another  to  recog- 
nize your  beauty ! "  Mrs.  Landray  was  no 
prophetess,  yet  there  was  something  good  in 
store  for  her;  something  far  better  than  the 
things  she  had  well-nigh  wrecked  her  life  to 
gain. 


CHAPTER    XI 

"  Matter  wherein   right  voluble  I   am, 
To  which  I  listen  with  a  ready  ear." 

JERRY  and  his  wife  often  found  themselves 
spending  the  evening  in  Mrs.  Curtman's 
kitchen.  Eliza  Jane  and  Didama  were  on 
excellent  terms,  notwithstanding  their  relation- 
ship, having  long  ago  concluded  there  was  no 
necessity  that  on  account  of  it  they  should 
always  be  at  enmity.  After  a  few  passages 
at  arms,  back  in  the  past  (in  the  days  when 
the  new  relationship  was  being  adjusted), 
they  had  concluded  to  bury  the  hatchet,  and 
had  been  for  many  years  a  living  evidence  of 
its  pleasant  possibilities. 

They  often  enjoyed  a  dish  of  news  to- 
gether, and  still  more  the  other  dishes  that 
were  frequently  in  evidence.  Many  a  tooth- 

140 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        141 

some  viand  appeared  on  Gertrude's  table, 
which,  untasted  by  her,  passed  on  to  other  and 
more  appreciative  palates.  Gertrude  knew 
and  provided  for  it.  But  this  evening's  social 
intercourse  was  not  interrupted  by  the  serving 
of  refreshments. 

Jerry  and  Didama  had  scarcely  arrived  be- 
fore Columbus  too  walked  in. 

"  How  do  you  fine  yourself  this  evenin', 
Mr.  Wheeler? "  asked  Jerry  as  Columbus, 
drawing  up  a  chair,  made  himself  one  of  the 
group. 

"  Well,  I've  not  been  in  the  best  of  health 
lately,  Mr.  Sefton;  I  have  had  the  influenza." 

'  That  is  sho'  nuff  bad — leastwise  I  'spose 
it  is.  I  never  had  it.  My  mammy  had  me 
vax'nated  when  I  wuz  little." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  one  of  the  diseases  vaccina- 
tion prevents." 

"Ain't  it?  I  doan  kno'  myself;  they  duz 
so  meny  things  these  days  that  I  can't  keep 


142         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

up  wid  em.  No  use  tryin'.  How's  Mrs. 
Wheeler  an'  the  chillen?  " 

"Very  well;  Mrs.  Wheeler  has  just  sent 
me  a  little  memorandum  to  attend  to  before  I 
come  home.  I  remind  myself  of  Mr.  Curt- 
man;  he  was  always  forgetting  things,  and 
Mrs.  Curtman  used  to  threaten  making  a 
memorandum  on  his  cuff." 

"  Them  was  fine  ole  days  when  the  Boss 
used  to  be  roun'  heyr,"  interrupted  Jerry, 
"  fine  ole  days,  an'  I  wish  they  wuz  back.  I 
suttenly  do  wish  he  wuz  roun'  here  agin,  the 
head  uv  his  house.  Devose  ain't  'spectable  as 
marriage  is." 

'Yes,  the  whole  establishment  would  be 
more  stylish;  I'd  rather  be  in  the  employ  of  a 
man  than  a  woman;  it  has  the  look  of  army 
life  to  be  under  the  authority  of  a  man." 

"  Go  'way,  C'lumbus ;  you  make  me  sick 
talkin'  'bout  army  life.  Whut  you  kno'  'bout 
army  life.  Enybody'd  think  frum  hearin' 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         143 

you  talk  that  you'se  jest  back  from  the  Philly- 
pines  an'  you  never  seen  no  Phillypines  or  no 
kine  of  pines  in  yer  life  'ceptin'  'em  out  in 
the  yard.  Go  'way,  nigger." 

"  Now,  Brur  Jerre,"  put  in  Eliza  Jane, 
"you  ain't  treatin'  Miss'er  Wheeler  right. 
You  ought'n  call  him  a  nigger.  He's  col'd 


man." 


"  That's  jest  the  pint  I'm  gwine  ter  make 
now.  Ef  a  col'd  man  acts  sens'ble  that's 
whut  I  calls  him,  but  ef  he  doan  I  calls  him  a 
nigger." 

"  If  you  would  read  up  on  the  subject,  you'd 
find  there's  no  such  word  as  nigger." 

"  Oh,  I  kin  read  ef  I  want  ter ;  but  it  huts 
my  eyes,  an'  they  doan  pernounce  in  nuse- 
papers  like  I  duz,  nohow." 

"  I  suspect  you  can't  tell  how  I  came  by 
my  name,"  said  Columbus,  who  intended  prov- 
ing to  Jerry  how  much  he  missed  by  neglecting 
books. 


144         OUT    OF    THE   ASHES 

"  No;  wharr  you  git  it?  " 

"  I'm  named  for  the  man  who  discovered 
this  country." 

"Ain't  he  dead?" 

"  Long,  long  ago." 

"  Then  whut  good's  it  dun  you  to  be  name 
fur  him?  Your  daddy  jest  waste  that  name. 
I  knows  better 'n  that;  I  names  my  chillen  fur 
somebody  whut's  livin'  and  goin'  to  do  some- 
thin'  fur  'em.  Ise  got  a  boy  name  Morrison, 
an'  two  gurls,  one  uv  'em  name  Gertrue,  an' 
one  name  Kath'rn,  an'  they  close  doan  cost 
me  a  cent,  shoes,  or  hats,  or  nuthin'." 

"  But  there  is  something  in  being  self- 
respecting,"  remarked  Columbus  with  dig- 
nity. 

;<  That's  jest  whut  I  say,"  replied  Jerry, 
"  I'm  respectin'  myself  so  I  won't  have  ter 
wuk  myself  to  death,  takin'  keer  uv  a  passell 
chillen  when  somebody  do  it  fur  me.  That's 
whut  I  calls  respectin'  yerself.  I  kno's  mo' 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        145 

people  still  I'd  name  chillen  after  ef  I  had  the 
chillen." 

"You  don't  catch  my  idea  about  self- 
respect." 

"No,  an'  I  doan  wanter  ketch  it;  I'se  got 
the  bes'  one  myself.  I'll  keep  mine." 

"  Oh,  it's  too  small  a  matter  for  friends  to 
dispute  over,  and  as  I  have  some  little  com- 
missions to  attend  to,  I'll  move  on,"  and  turn- 
ing toward  the  door,  Columbus  bade  them 
good-evening,  with  the  air  of  a  man,  much 
superior  to  his  company  and  surroundings,  but 
tolerant. 

"Now  that  we'se  by  ourself,"  said  Jerry, 
drawing  his  chair  up  closer  to  the  two  women, 
"  let's  talk  over  somethin'  on  my  mine.  It 
wouldn't  do  ter  talk  'bout  it  wharr  he  wuz," 
motioning  to  the  door  through  which  Colum- 
bus had  made  his  exit,  "  fur  he  never  wuz  one 
uv  the  f  am'bly,  an'  it  ain't  nachul  fur  him  to 
have  the  same  f  eelin's  'bout  the  matter  that  we 


146        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

has.  Enyway  it's  all  in  strick  conf 'rence  whut 
I  say;  an'  ef  Columbus  kno'  enything  his  wife 
is  sho'  to  fine  it  out,  an'  whut  she  kno'  the  town 
kno'  putty  soon.  Calline  no  dou'tedly  is  got 
a  long  tongue." 

"  It  most  suttenly  is,  an'  hich't  in  the  middle 
at  that,"  said  Eliza  Jane. 

'  Well,  here  it  iz.  The  Boss  is  lookin' 
mightly  porely — that  man  ain't  happy.  He 
jest  sets  a-studyin'  an'  studyin',  hardly  noticin' 
enybody  when  they  talks  to  him 

"  An'  Miss  Gertrue  ain't  happy  nuther,  like 
she  use  ter  be,"  interrupted  Eliza  Jane. 

"  They  orter  make  up,"  remarked  Didama. 

"  Of  course  they  orter,"  replied  Jerry.  "  It 
ain't  no  use  to  never  forgive;  it  ain't  right. 
Our  Lord  teaches  forgiveness.  We  got  to 
forgive;  no  two  ways  'bout  it." 

"  Of  course,"  said  both  women. 

"  I  kno'  somethin',"  Jerry  continued  in  a 
lowered  voice,  drawing  his  chair  still  closer, 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         147 

and  looking  toward  the  door  to  be  sure  Co- 
lumbus had  not  returned.  "  I  kno'  somethin', 
but  you  ain't  to  say  nuthin*  'bout  it." 

"  Of  course  we  won't,"  the  women  promised 
in  chorus. 

"  You  'member  'bout  that  Landr'y  woman 
whut  made  the  tr'uble?" 

"  I  mos'  suttenly  do,"  answered  Eliza  Jane 
promptly.  "  I  gets  mad  ev'ry  time  I  thinks 
'bout  her.  Come  here  from  nobody  kno' 
wharr  an'  gits  to  runnin'  with  her  betters; 
makin'  out  like  she  wuz  qual'ty  same  es  Miss 
Gertrue." 

"  Whut  I  tell  you,  Lizerjane — whut  I  tell 
you  that  nite  we  went  ter  the  pay  party 
t'gether?  Didn't  fool  me." 

"  No,  an'  she  didn't  fool  me  ner  Mrs.  Bram- 
let  nuther.  We  spotted  her." 

"I  b'lieve  you!"  interjected  Didama,  and 
they  digressed  a  moment  to  congratulate  each 
other  on  their  capabilities  in  character  reading. 


148        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

"  Well,  she  wuz  back  here  las'  month,"  kept 
on  Jerry. 

"That  'oman  back  heyr!"  exclaimed  both 
Eliza  Jane  and  Didama. 

"  Well,  ef  she  ain't  got  the  'surance  uv  old 
scrach  hisseff ,"  continued  Didama.  "  How  iz  it 
you  never  sed  nuthin'  'bout  it  to  me,  Jerre?  " 

"  Kase  I  ain't  lookin'  fur  tr'uble." 

"  I  wouldn't  a-tole  nobody." 

"  Well,  ef  you  doan  say  nuthin'  nobody  kin 
ever  say  you  sed  it.  I  didn't  want  no  wild 
scatterin'  rumers  trace  back  ter  me,  an'  so  I 
jest  let  a  passel  uv  weeks  go  by  'fore  I  men- 
chun  it  'tall." 

"  Well,  maybe  that  wuz  bes',"  agreed  Did- 
ama. 

"  I  kno'  'twuz,"  Jerry  replied. 

"An*  she  back  here  after  Mr.  Cu'tmun!" 
said  Eliza  Jane. 

"  But  she  didn't  git  him.  It  wuz  all  jest 
this  way:  One  nite  when  I  wuz  a-fixin'  the 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         149 

reg'ster  in  the  hall  I  hear  somebody  come 
sweepin'  pass  me  an'  when  I  look  up  who  you 
'spose  I  see?  Why,  Mrs.  Landr'y  drest  in  the 
finest  kine  uv  close  an'  all  sorts  uv  diniunts. 
She  went  sweepin'  up  to  the  winder  wharr  the 
Boss  wuz  settin'  an'  I  heard  ev'ry  word  they 
sed.  I  wuzn't  eavesdrappin',  you  understan'. 
That's  somethin'  I  wouldn't  do;  I'se  'bove  it." 

"  Of  course  you  iz,"  agreed  Eliza  Jane ; 
"  you  has  been  better  raised." 

"  Of  course  you  wuzn't;  you  got  too  much 
self-respec'  fur  that,"  said  Didama. 

"  But  here's  how  it  wuz.  When  I  see  her 
go  up  ter  wharr  the  Boss  wuz,  I  jest  kep'  on 
wukin'  at  that  reg'ster  (tho'  I'se  dun  fixed  it) 
tell  she  lef.  I'se  boun'  ter  heyr  ev'ry;  wud 
they  say,  an'  I  did." 

"  I  wish  he'd  a  riz  up  an' " 

"  Well,  he  talk  putty  ruff  ter  her,  I  kin  teU 
yer.  He  pintedly  give  her  to  un'stan'  she  wuz 
ter  keep  her  place.  Yer  kno'  the  Boss  sho'ly 


150        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

haz  got  putty  manners,  but  he  didn't  have  'em 
on  that  nite;  he  never  try  to  be  thur'bred.  He 
never  shuck  han's  with  her,  he  never  ask  her 
ter  set  down,  an'  all  the  time  she  wuz  a-talkin' 
ter  him  he  kep't  his  hat  on  an'  his  feet  up  in 
the  winder  an'  keep  a-lookin'  out  to'ads  wharr 
Miss  Gertrue  live.  He's  allers  settin'  tharr 
uv  nites  a-studyin'  an'  studyin'.  I  b'leve  he's 
studyin'  'bout  Miss  Gertrue." 

"Of  course  he  is,"  said  Didama,  who 
thought  it  a  good  opportunity  to  enunciate 
a  principle :  "  Ain't  no  man  whut's  any  'count 
kin  keep  frum  lovin'  his  wife." 

"  Well,  when  that  'oman  lef '  she  turn  roun* 
an'  say  to  the  Boss  that  she'd  see  him  agin; 
but  he  say  'Not  ef  I  see  you  fust.' ' 

"He  treat  her  jist  like  she  zerved!"  cried 
Eliza  Jane  exultantly.  '  Whut  would  he  be 
talkin'  ter  her  like  she  a  laidee  fur  when  she 
ain't." 

"  I  b'leve  you!  "  ejaculated  Didama. 


OUT   OF    THE    ASHES         151 

"  The  nex'  mornin'  she  lef '  the  hotel,  an'  I 
never  seen  her  sence.  Said  she  wuz  goin'  ter 
the  seasho'." 

"  Miss  Gertrue's  goin'  to  the  seasho',  too, 
but  she  won't  see  her;  they  ain't  in  the  same 
class.  But  'fore  she  goes  I'm  gwine  to  tell  her 
whut  you  jest  tole  me  an'  Didamy." 

"  Look  here,  nigger,  you  jest  keep  yer 
mouff  shet;  you'se  fixin'  up  to  git  me  into 
tru'ble.  Didn't  I  say  'fore  I  begin  tellin*  it 
that  it  wuz  in  strick  conf'rence? " 

"  Doan  you  worry,  Brur  Jerre ;  I  ain't  gwine 
ter  git  you  into  no  tr'uble.  I  kno'  how  to  tell 
that.  We  all  want  'em  to  make  up,  an'  it  sut- 
tenly  will  help  'long  fur  Miss  Gertrue  to  kno* 
the  Boss  ain't  kerrin'  fur  that  other  'oman. 
That's  nacher,  ain't  it,  Didamy?  " 

"  I  b'leve  you !  "  replied  Didama,  "  that  sut- 
tenly  is  nacher,  an'  nacherl  nacher  at  that." 

'''  Well,"  agreed  Jerry,  "  if  whut  I  tole  you 
be  eny  use  in  bringin'  the  Boss  an'  Miss  Ger- 


152        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

true  together,  I'm  willin';  we  orter  be  willin' 
to  resk  somethin'  fur  that.  But  still  you  go 
'bout  it  mighty  skittish,  Lizerjane.  Feel  yer 
way  'long.  It's  a  mighty  ticklish  job  ter  patch 
up  a  fuss  'tween  a  husben  an'  wife.  It's  like 
walkin'  thro'  a  swamp;  you'se  on  solid  groun' 
one  minit  an'  the  nex'  up  ter  yer  knees  in  the 
mud ;  or  like  goin'  some  place  in  the  dark ;  you 
think  you  in  the  right  road  an'  the  nex'  you 
butt  up  agin  a  stump." 

"  I  kno',  Brur  Jerre;  it's  jest  like  you  say; 
but  I'll  tell  it;  I'll  tell  it  or  die." 

"  Now  see  heyr,  Lizerjane,  you  too  full  uv 
mad  to  make  a  good  job." 

"Doan  you  be  uneasy  'bout  Lizerjane; 
she'll  git  tharr.  I  kin  be  es  smooth  es  butter 
when  I  wants  ter  be.  I  ain't  been  cookin'  fur 
Miss  Gertrue  ten  year  fur  nuthin'.  I  knows 
how  ter  talk  ter  a  laidee.  You  recken  I  talks 
ter  her  like  I  talks  ter  you?  No ;  doan  you  be 
uneasy  'bout  Lizerjane." 


CHAPTER  XII 

"  I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around 
him  a  blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest 
affection." 

CURTMAN  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  sum- 
mer in  the  city  regardless  of  the  heat  and  mos- 
quitoes, making  hut  one  short  absence.  His 
presence  had  been  required,  for  a  few  days,  at 
their  branch  house  in  Minnesota,  and  while 
there,  he  passed  a  fortnight  in  the  lake  region. 
But  he  found  that  leisure  bored  him,  and  that 
to  him  vacation  did  not  mean  recreation,  and  so 
returned  to  his  routine  life,  his  busy  hours  in 
his  office  and  long  evening  walks.  Indeed  he 
made  much  longer  the  evening  walks,  for  it 
needed  now  more  physical  exhaustion  to  bring 
sleep  to  his  pillow.  He  abandoned  his  reveries 
at  the  hall  window  while  Gertrude  was  away, 

153 


154         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

but  resumed  them  as  soon  as  her  lamp  was 
a-glow,  and,  moreover,  he  knew  the  first  night 
that  it  was  a-glow.  There  was  no  need  for 
him  to  read  the  society  column  for  informa- 
tion. He  knew  before  the  reporters  when  she 
got  back! 

The  Beverleys  had  remained  all  summer  at 
their  home;  it  was  suburban;  a  broad-hailed, 
big-roomed  house  in  the  midst  of  a  large  yard, 
and  Mrs.  Beverley  argued  that  it  would  be 
folly  to  exchange  it  for  cramped  quarters  at 
a  fashionable  resort.  !<  We  are  better  off  and 
happier  here  "  she  said,  "  and  if  I  have  my 
way,  here  we  will  stay."  Her  husband  agreed 
with  her,  and  they  stayed;  and  when  in 
the  early  autumn,  her  friends  returned  and 
began  unpacking  and  settling,  she  heartily 
congratulated  herself  that  she  had  not  been 
unsettled. 

As  Beverley  and  Curtman  sat  lunching  to- 
gether at  a  restaurant  at  the  noon  hour — as 


OUT   OF    THE    ASHES         155 

they  often  did — Beverley  engaged  his  friend's 
company  for  a  home  dinner  a  few  days  dis- 
tant. 

'  There  are  no  other  guests  expected;  it's 
my  birthday  and  there  are  very  few  people 
I'm  telling  my  age  to  these  days." 

'  With  your  children  climbing  into  their 
teens,  it's  right  hard  to  keep  it  hid,  isn't  it, 
Beverley?  to  say  nothing  of  the  gray  hairs 
sprinkled  here  and  there  over  your  pate, — the 
*  silver  threads  among  the  gold? ' 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  Curtman,  I  don't 
care;  really  one  gets  indifferent  to  the  ap- 
proach of  age  when  he  has  a  happy  home.  My 
wife  and  children  would  love  me  if  I  were  as 
gray  as  a  badger,  or  bald;  they  don't  throw  a 
man  away  when  he  reaches  the  '  sere  and  yel- 
low leaf.'  A  man  can  laugh  at  the  taunts  and 
jeers  of  the  world,  when  it's  all  right  at  home ; 
he  can  close  the  door  on  the  disagreeables  of 
existence,  shut  out  the  cold  blasts,  and  be  filled 


156        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

with  content  and  happiness  at  his  own  fireside. 
I  sometimes  shudder  to  think  what  and  where 
I  would  have  been  had  I  not  married — what  a 
prey  I  would  have  been — fool  that  I  was — to 
the  vampires,  adventurers,  and  such  kinds  that 
roam  about  looking  for  weaklings!  Yes,"  he 
continued  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  a  happy 
home  is  a  blessing — it  might  be  called  a  wall 
that  God  builds  about  a  man.  If  you  give 
but " 

Beverley  stopped  short,  the  remark  un- 
finished on  his  lips.  He  had  turned  toward 
Curtman  and  noted  the  pallor  on  his  face  and 
the  sorrow  in  his  eyes. 

What  had  he  been  doing!  Dilating  on  do- 
mestic happiness  to  a  man  who  had  relin- 
quished his,  had  bartered  it  for — nothing. 

"  I  did  not  think,  Curtman,"  he  said  in  a 
lowered  voice.  "  I— 

"  No  apology,  Beverley,"  he  interrupted 
with  a  deprecating  gesture;  "  don't  ever 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        157 

apologize  to  me.  I  often  get  these  blows,  and 
from  the  hands  of  friends,  too.  They  are  not 
intended  for  me,  but  I  deserve  and  take  them. 
Talk  on,  my  friend,  as  much  as  you  like  and 
whenever  you  choose,  of  your  domestic  life; 
I  like  to  hear  you.  I  am  not  a  dog  in  the 
manger.  I'm  not  that  kind  of  dog.  The 
sketch  you  made  of  the  inside  glow  at  the  fire- 
side and  the  outside  frost  is  good,  not  one  line 
overdrawn." 

"  You  understand  then — that  I  did  not 

"  I  understand,"  interrupted  Curtman, 
"  and  to  show  you  that  I  understand,  I  accept 
your  invitation  to  dinner." 

Beverley  kept  his  word ;  there  were  no  other 
guests  expected,  and  Morrison  found  himself 
with  only  the  family  at  the  birthday  board. 
This  made  it  all  the  pleasanter  for  him,  and  he 
enjoyed  it  as  thoroughly  as  a  plant  trans- 
ferred from  the  cellar's  dusk  to  the  warmth 
and  brightness  of  a  sunny  window.  He  paid 


158         OUT    OF   THE  ASHES 

the  menu  a  substantial  compliment;  he  could 
not  recall,  since  his  own  housekeeping  days, 
when  he  had  eaten  so  heartily,  nor  could  he  tell 
whether  it  was  because  the  dishes  were  really 
so  good,  or  the  piquant  sauce  of  agreeable 
company  so  appetizing.  No  matter  what,  he 
ate,  and  talked,  and  laughed,  and  was  for  a  lit- 
tle while  his  old  self.  But  he  felt  through  it 
all,  like  a  man  dreaming,  with  the  sub-con- 
sciousness running  through  the  dream,  that  he 
is  asleep,  and  will  awake  and  the  happiness  be 
gone. 

After  the  coffee  had  been  served  the  gentle- 
men adjourned  to  the  library,  where,  undis- 
turbed, they  enjoyed  each  other  and  their 
cigars;  for  Beverley  smoked  in  his  library;  he 
was  neither  afraid  of  scenting  the  curtains 
nor  angering  his  wife.  Mrs.  Beverley  ex- 
plained, in  her  own  happy  style,  how  it  was  that 
her  husband  took  such  liberties  with  one  of  the 
living-rooms. 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         159 

"  Maybe  you  have  heard,  Mr.  Curtman," 
she  said,  as  they  were  leaving  the  table,  "  the 
Irishman's  explanation  of  the  luxury  in  which 
his  pig  was  kept :  '  Why,  he  is  the  gintleman 
that  pays  the  rint,'  he  remarked.  And  this 
is  our  gentleman  who  pays  the  rent,  or,  rather, 
owns  the  house,"  she  laughed,  laying  her  hand 
on  her  husband's  arm.  "  He  resigns  to  the 

children  and  me  the  premises ;  we  have  the  best 

* 

of  everything  and  monopolize  the  rest  of  the 
house.  Surely  he  ought  to  have  one  room  into 
which  he  can  retreat  when  he  wants  to  get  rid 
of  us,  out  of  which  he  can  smoke  us,  when  we 
get  too  many  for  him  and  beset  him  like  a 
swarm  of  mosquitoes. 

"  And  then,  too,  Mr.  Curtman,"  she  con- 
tinued, turning  to  Morrison,  "  when  Lewis  is 
a  trifle  moody — and  the  best  of  men  are 
moody  sometimes,  you  know — I  can  just  shut 
him  up  in  there  with  a  lot  of  good  reading  and 
tobacco,  and  it's  astonishing  in  what  a  fine 


160        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

humor  he  will  emerge!  So  you  see  there's 
'  method  in  my  madness.' ' 

'  Yes,"  replied  Morrison,  "  much  '  method  ' 
and  but  little  '  madness.' ' 

The  friends  talked  along  after  a  desultory 
fashion  as  they  smoked,  often  indulging  in 
long  silences,  during  which  each  busied  him- 
self with  his  musings;  a  pleasant  liberty  that 
friends  can  take,  who  understand  each  other 

I 

too  well  to  be  wholly  dependent  on  words  for 
an  interchange  of  thought. 

On  the  table  between  them,  placed  there  for 
their  mutual  use,  was  a  tobacco  jar  of  such 
quaint  design  and  gorgeous  colors,  that  it  at- 
tracted Curtman's  attention.  A  broken  tree, 
of  a  grayish-brown  color,  the  color  of  the 
cocoa's  bark,  was  clasped  about  with  a  vine, 
whose  leaves  and  blossoms  were  mosaics  of 
brilliant  shades,  with  here  and  there  among 
them  ripened  berries  simulated  by  dull,  red 
stones. 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         161 

"  What  a  handsome  jar  this,  Lewis,"  he  re- 
marked, leaning  over  and  examining  it  closely. 
"  It  looks  as  if  it  were  directly  from  the  Orient, 
and  might  have  served  some  old  Persian 
smoker  before  it  reached  you." 

"  It  may  have  done  that  very  thing,"  Bever- 
ley  replied.  "  It  is  directly  from  the  Orient. 
Kantrell  brought  me  that — poor  Kantrell, 
who  left  us  so  suddenly  and  sadly." 

'  Yes ;  I  was  not  here  when  he  died,  but  can 
recall,  as  distinctly  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  how 
I  was  shocked  on  reading  the  announcement 
of  his  death.  I  got  here  just  in  time  for  his 
funeral." 

'  Yes,  I  remember ;  we  were  pallbearers  to- 
gether." 

"  I  sometimes  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  mother, 
through  her  carriage  window,  as  she  takes  her 
drives,  and  can  scarcely  realize  that  this  poor, 
broken  woman  is  the  stately  dame  she  was  a 
few  years  back.  I  have  never  seen  a  sadder 


162         OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

face  than  hers,  and  sometimes  wonder  if  this 
can  indeed  be  the  woman  we  used  to  know, 
whose  social  '  brand '  was  of  so  much  conse- 
quence. She  gives  me  never  a  salutation.  I'm 
confident  she  means  no  slight ;  in  fact,  I  doubt 
if  she  sees  me,  for  she  has  the  dazed,  unseeing 
look  of  one  whose  mind  is  busy  with  other 
things  than  those  in  range  of  vision." 

'  Yes,  I  have  observed  that  myself ;  but,  as 
you  say,  she  means  no  discourtesy;  she  is  just 
a  heart-broken  woman — too  much  absorbed  in 
her  sorrow  to  take  cognizance  of  the  world 
around  her.  She  has  abandoned  herself  to  a 
grief,  which  she  neither  conceals,  nor  tries  to 
conceal." 

"  Is  Kantrell's  death  this  grief?  I  thought 
that  in  time  all  get  used  to  death — become  re- 
signed and  accept  it  as  the  inevitable.  I 
thought  that  only  living  griefs  gnaw  out  the 
heart?" 

"Ah,  there  is  the  trouble;  hers  is  a  living 


OUT   OF    THE    ASHES         163 

grief.  She  thinks  herself  responsible  for  his 
death.  You  know  he  died  of  dissipation." 
"  I  was  not  sure,  but  feared  so." 
"  And  she  regards  herself  responsible  in- 
directly, indeed  directly,  for  this  dissipation. 
This  may  or  may  not  be  true.  She  broke  off 
his  marriage  with  the  woman  he  loved,  but  did 
not  break  off  the  love;  that  was  beyond  her 
power.  Whether  or  not  this  drove  him  to  dissi- 
pation, as  the  phrase  goes,  I  can't  tell.  I  have 
never  settled  it  in  my  own  mind,  how  much  be- 
ing '  crossed  in  hapless  love  '  has  to  do  with  the 
downward  trend  of  a  man.  I  once  heard  a 
man  of  talent  and  distinction,  who  had,  for 
many  years  before  he  was  reclaimed,  aban- 
doned himself  to  drunkenness,  in  this  way  ac- 
count for  his  downward  trend.  But  he  may 
not  have  understood  himself;  he  may  have 
made  a  false  diagnosis.  I  have  many  times 
had  occasion  to  make  observation,  but  have 
never  reached  a  conclusion. 


164         OUT   OF    THE   ASHES 

"  Kantrell  never  told  me  what  it  was ;  but 
now  and  then,  an  inadvertent  remark,  or  a 
more  expressive  silence,  when  such  things  were 
under  discussion,  made  me  think,  that  some- 
where back  in  his  past,  he  had  had  an  af- 
faire du  coeur,  from  which  he  had  never  re- 
covered." 

'  The  marriage,  had  it  come  off,  would  not 
have  been  a  mesalliance,  as  the  term  is  gen- 
erally received.  Jennie  Lane  was  a  most  es- 
timable girl  herself,  and  her  people  respect- 
able. Kantrell  met  and  loved  her,  while  they 
lived  in  one  of  the  little  villages  a  few  miles 
from  the  city — I  forget  its  name.  Afterward 
her  father  came  here,  to  Chicago,  to  live.  He 
was  a  man  of  but  small  means,  and  went  into 
some  little  business  that  never  brought  him  in 
contact  with  KantrelTs  associates.  I  doubt  if 
Mr.  Lane  knew,  even  by  sight,  the  financiers 
of  our  *  Wall  Street.'  But  little  he  cared  for 
this,  and  kept  on  in  his  simple,  self-respecting 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         165 

way — as  he  does  yet — earning  an  honest,  but 
meager  living  for  his  family.  When  she  first 
came  here  to  live,  Kantrell  tried  bravely  to  do 
his  part.  He  took  some  of  his  friends  to  call 
upon  her,  appeared  with  her  in  public,  and 
tried  by  all  the  persuasive  arts  of  which  he  was 
possessed,  to  have  his  mother  and  sister  take  her 
up.  Not  they;  they  laughed  when  he  gave 
them  her  address.  '  We  never  heard  of  such 
a  street ! '  averred  Mabel  Kantrell.  *  If  we 
should  try  to  find  the  young  lady,  I'm  afraid 
the  coachman  would  get  lost  in  the  search/ 
said  his  mother ;  *  anyway  we  shall  not 
risk  it.' 

'  The  Kantrells,  you  remember,  were  the 
reigning  dynasty  in  society  then.  With  their 
wealth,  open  house,  and  gorgeous  appareling, 
they  kept  easily  on  the  head  rung  of  the  lad- 
der, and  so  secure  was  their  footing  that 
they  could  thrust  back  all  uncongenial  aspir- 
ants. 


166        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

"  As  for  poor  Jennie  Lane,  she  was  not  an 
aspirant.  She  knew  that  without  money  she 
could  not  climb  to  this  giddy  height;  in  fact, 
she  had  no  such  desire ;  she  had  Kantrell's  love ; 
what  was  there  in  the  world  besides  worth  hav- 
ing! 

"  Mrs.  Kantrell  and  her  daughter  only  met 
her  once.  Kantrell  argued  if  they  but  saw  her 
they  would  welcome  her  with  open  arms,  that 
they  could  not  resist  her  loveliness,  and  so  con- 
trived this  meeting.  He  purchased  tickets  to 
the  opera  then  running  an  engagement  here, 
securing  seats  near  their  box.  When  the  cur- 
tain had  fallen  on  the  last  act,  he  turned  and 
introduced  them.  For  all  Kantrell  was  so  pro- 
nounced, even  effusive,  in  his  introduction,  his 
mother  and  sister  were  merely  polite  in  recog- 
nition. Miss  Lane  felt  the  coldness  of  the 
greeting,  and  knew  that  from  that  on  there  was 
a  wall  of  ice  between  them:  a  wall  they  would 
not  remove,  and  over  which  she  would  never 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         167 

climb.  But  still  she  had  Kantrell's  love;  why 
should  she  care! 

"  His  inquiry  the  next  day,  concerning  the 
impression  she  had  made,  was  disposed  of  in 
a  few  words  by  his  mother,  who  pronounced 
her  a  simple  rustic  miss,  not  to  be  thought  of, 
and  Mabel  declared  she  was  a  country  guy. 

"  Now,  you  wonder  that  Kantrell  did  not 
ignore  such  senseless  objections  and  marry  the 
girl  at  once.  But  in  this,  you  presuppose  for 
him  much  strength  of  character,  and  the  pos- 
session of  an  independent  purse;  and  he  had 
neither — the  strength  of  character  nor  the 
purse.  The  wealth  was  his  mother's,  and 
although  she  allowed  him  enough  yearly  to 
support  a  family,  he  was  given  to  under- 
stand it  would  be  withdrawn,  if  he  ever  mar- 
ried out  of  his  circle.  And  then,  too,  you 
must  not  forget  what  a  weapon  of  destruction 
is  ridicule !  It  seems  a  small  blade  to  fear,  but 
it  is  sharp,  incisive,  and  gets  in  between  the 


168        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

plates  of  a  well-armed  man  and  does  its  deadly 
work  where  mightier  weapons  fail.  I  believe 
that  many  a  man  that  has  fought  bravely  for 
his  side  in  argument,  has  gone  down  before 
the  telling  thrusts  of  ridicule.  And  then,  too, 
Miss  Kantrell  married  a  man  who  added  his 
moiety,  too,  of  contempt  for  this  *  Maud  Mul- 
ler/  George  had  picked  up  somewhere  and 
brought  to  town! 

"  The  marriage  of  Miss  Kantrell  was  alto- 
gether to  the  mother's  taste.  Whartlet  was 
much  esteemed  in  the  smart  set«,  a  veritable 
Beau  Brummel  in  attire,  and  with  it  all  a  man 
of  fine  business  qualities.  As  for  these  busi- 
ness qualities,  it  was  remarkable,  how  fine,  and 
many  ihey  were.  It  was  astonishing,  how 
rapidly  he  forged  along  in  acquiring  stock, 
bonds,  real  estate,  and  other  evidences  of  in- 
dustriously used  business  talents." 

Curtman  laughed.  !<  I  have  reason  to  re- 
member how  he  '  forged  '  along,"  he  said. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         169 

"  You  recall  it  all,  then — how  he  embezzled, 
defrauded,  and  got  so  much  money  from  so 
many  people  that  the  law,  for  all  it  is  so 
lenient  with  the  rich,  had  to  deal  with  him. 
His  indebtedness  reached  out  so  far  that  his 
wife's  money  wouldn't  cover  it,  and  he  got 
the  sentence  he  deserved. 

"  Now,  while  this  Maud  Muller's  father  is 
still  working  at  his  little  business,  a  business 
too  little  to  be  rated  by  the  agencies,  he  gets, 
as  he  works  along,  his  air  and  sunshine  straight 
from  the  heavens,  not  filtered  in  through 
prison  bars. 

"  As  for  poor  Jennie,  hers  was  a  case  of 
broken  heart,  and  it  took  her  to  her  grave. 
That  is,  Kantrell  so  thought,  and  from  him  I 
learned  all  this  I  give  you.  He  often  talked 
with  me  about  this  episode,  which  confidence  I 
humored,  as  it  seemed  to  bring  relief — this 
molding  of  his  sorrow  into  words. 

"  He  carried,  though,  a  brave  front  toward 


170        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

the  world — he  did  the  best  he  could  to  hide  his 
wound,  and  now  his  friends  recall  him  as  a 
merry  fellow,  the  wit  of  all  their  dinners,  a 
very  repository  of  jests." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

"  Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune." 

•  •  •  •  • 

"      ...     is  a  thing 
Which  by  its  stillness  warns  me  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring." 

THIS  chapter  from  his  friend's  life  deeply  in- 
terested Curtman,  but  did  not  surprise  him. 
It  was  but  the  corroboration  of  the  suspected 
love  affair,  though  the  love  affair  itself  had 
been  one  of  far  more  seriousness  than  he  had 
dreamed.  When  he  left  Beverley,  he  did  not 
leave  the  story ;  it  went  with  him,  as  he  walked 
homeward.  While  he  waited  on  the  corner 
for  a  downtown  car,  one  approached  from  the 
opposite  direction,  whose  suburban  route  would 
take  him  past  the  cemetery.  This  he  boarded 
instead,  that  he  might  go  to  KantrelTs  grave. 

171 


172        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

It  was  a  long  ride,  given  to  painful  retro- 
spection, but  after  a  while  a  dark  line  of  ever- 
greens in  the  distance  outlined  the  silent  city, 
and  a  little  later  he  reached  the  entrance.  The 
iron  gate  was  open,  and  beside  it  sat  a  little 
flower  vender,  mutely  lifting  her  wares  to  the 
passers-by.  Curtman  stopped  and  bought  a 
bunch  of  roses  to  lay  on  Kantrell's  grave;  he 
had  not  been  there  since  he  had  helped  to  lay 
him  in  it  years  ago,  but  remembering  the  loca- 
tion of  the  family  lot,  turned  his  steps  in  that 
direction. 

He  journeyed  along,  slowly  and  thought- 
fully, now  and  then  stopping  to  read  an  in- 
scription on  the  monuments  that  lined  his 
path. 

Beverley's  sad  story,  with  its  obvious  moral, 
had  predisposed  him  to  criticism,  and  he 
could  but  note  how  here  around  him,  in  abun- 
dant evidence,  pride  and  love  of  fame  were 
brought  to  the  very  gates  of  death,  as  shaft 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         173 

after  shaft,  rising  high  in  air,  claimed  for  the 
name  it  bore,  even  in  death,  the  "  pride  of 
heraldry  and  pomp  of  power." 

But  there  was,  too,  many  a  simple  stone  in 
his  path  bearing  only  name  and  date,  some- 
times as  well  a  "  holy  text "  which  said  to  all 
that  stopped  to  read,  "  That  Life  is  ever  lord 
of  Death." 

There  was  certainly  round  about  him  on 
every  side  much  on  which  to  moralize,  and 
Morrison  did  moralize — after  a  fashion — and 
through  his  thoughts  ran  a  sentiment  much 
akin  to  gratitude.  "  She  still  lives,  she  still 
lives,"  he  said  again  and  again  to  himself;  "  it 
might  be  worse — she  might  be  here,  but  she 
still  lives!" 

The  intervening  shrubs  and  vines  had  so  ob- 
secured  the  grave  he  sought,  that  he  was  at  its 
side  before  perceiving  that  someone  was  there 
before  him,  a  woman  sitting  at  its  foot,  dressed 
in  the  deepest  habiliments  of  grief.  After  a 


174         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

moment's  scrutiny  he  recognized  in  her  Kan- 
trell's  mother. 

"  Pardon  this  intrusion,  Mrs.  Kantrell,"  he 
said.  After  a  moment's  hesitancy,  he  added, 
"  I  have  brought  some  flowers  to  lay  on  my 
friend's  grave." 

"  It  is  no  intrusion,"  she  replied,  giving  him 
her  hand.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  someone  who 
cared  for  him.  You  helped  us  lay  him  here 
five  years  ago.  Do  you  know  that  it  was  five 
years  ago  yesterday? " 

"I  had  not  thought — it  scarcely  seems  so 
long." 

"  It  has  dragged  along  with  me  like  a  cen- 
tury, so  broken-hearted  and  miserable  have  I 
been!" 

Morrison  had  placed  the  roses  on  the  grave 
and  was  still  standing. 

"  Come,  be  seated,  Mr.  Curtman,"  she  con- 
tinued, making  room  for  him  beside  her  on  the 
settee.  "  Stay  with  me  a  little  while;  it's  a 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         175 

respite,  though  momentary — a  kind  of  relief, 
to  have  with  me  someone,  who  can  in  some 
measure,  comprehend  my  grief " 

"  I  can  understand " 

"  Not  all,"  she  interrupted,  "  you  cannot 
understand  it  all.  .  .  .  You  see  how  I 
have  strewn  it  with  flowers,"  she  pointed  to  the 
grave  on  which  lay  hundreds  of  hyacinths  and 
violets.  "  J  cover  it,  I  try  to  hide  it  from  my 
sight;  for  I  dug  it.  ...  I  dug  the  other,  too 
— hers;  and  I  put  flowers  on  them  both.  I 
hide  them  both;  I  hate  to  look  on  them — they 
hurt  my  eyes;  I  kept  them  apart  while  they 
were  living — too  proud  to  receive,  as  his  wife, 
a  woman  who  never  saw  the  day  that  she  was 
not  better  than  I.  ...  But  I  was  not  alone 
in  my  cruelty — not  that  it  makes  my  blame  the 
less — I  was  valiantly  aided  and  abetted  by  my 
daughter  and  her  husband.  And  now  her  hus- 
band, who  scorned  an  alliance  with  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  honest  man,  is  an  imprisoned  thief! 


176        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

And  I  am  glad.  You  may  think  it  diabolical 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  glad — that  it  gives 
me  pleasure  to  know  he  is  behind  grated  win- 
dows, but  it  is  true." 

"  Ah!  well,  you  do  not  mean " 

"  Oh!  yes  I  do,"  she  interrupted.  "  I  mean 
just  what  I  say,  I  mean  that  I  am  glad!  My 
day  of  affecting,  or  hiding  a  sentiment,  is 
gone.  I'm  not  the  polished,  smooth-tongued 
woman  you  once  knew.  I'm  the  ugly,  rugged 
creature  you  now  see.  When  I  hate,  I  say  I 
hate;  when  I'm  glad,  I  say  I'm  glad;  and  I'm 
glad,  I  tell  you,  that  Whartlet  is  in  prison.  Is 
it  strange  of  me?  He  it  is  who  helped  me  dig 
these  graves!  .  .  .  Mabel  says  my  mind 
is  affected,  but  it  is  not;  it  has  been  affected, 
but  it  is  not  now.  It  was  affected  when  I 
weighed  money,  and  class,  and  clothes,  and  so- 
ciety against  purity  and  gentleness  and  love. 
My  mind  was  affected  then,  more  than  af- 
fected, it  was  gone — I  was  insane.  But  now, 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        177 

oh!  it  is  sound  enough  now!  and  I  look  back 
upon  the  awful  deeds  I  committed  in  my  in- 
sanity, much  as  the  mother  with  returned 
reason  contemplates  her  murder  of  her  off- 
spring  in  a  delirium." 

Morrison  did  not  reply  at  once;  he  could 
think  of  nothing  consolatory  to  say.  He  cer- 
tainly did  not  commend  her  course,  and  he 
would  say  nothing  to  justify  it;  yet  there 
might  be  some  palliation. 

"Ah!  well,"  he  said  at  length,  and  with 
more  feeling  than  he  had  intended  to  display, 
"  we  all  have  a  sorrow,  not  the  same,  but  still 
all  of  us  a  sorrow;  nor  is  it  less,  in  anywise, 
because  we  brought  it  on  ourselves — our  cup 
is  none  the  less  bitter  because  we  got  together 
its  ingredients.  But,  with  you,"  he  added, 
"  it  may  have  been  thoughtlessness " 

'  Thoughtlessness !  It  was  wickedness.  Do 
you  not  believe  there  is  such  a  thing  as  wicked- 
ness? " 


178        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

"  I  know  there  is."  And  this  time  his  answer 
was  immediate  and  earnest. 

"And  pride!"  she  exclaimed,  after  a  mo- 
ment's abstraction.  "  What  dreadful  things 
we  do — all  of  us — for  the  sake  of  pride.  How 
like  an  ignis  fatuus  she  lures  us  on — up  to  ex- 
alted heights,  we  think,  hut  down  instead  to 
depths  of  woe.  What  misery  is  the  heritage 
of  her  dupes.  They  do  not  walk  about  in  their 
naked  ugliness,  they  are  closely  kept  in  hiding, 
but  for  all  that  they  are,  and  they  are 
many! 

"  Mr.  Curtman,"  she  asked,  turning  and 
looking  him  directly  in  the  face,  "is  it  not 
pride,  this  pride  that  has  played  me  false,  and 
brought  me  here  to  my  son's  tomb,  that  keeps 
you  and  your  wife  apart?  Why  do  you  not 
forgive  Gertrude? " 

"  Forgive  her !  I  have  nothing  to  forgive 
— nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  You  know 
Gertrude;  how  could  you  ask  that? " 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         179 

"  Then  why  do  you  not  beg  her  forgive- 
ness?    Too  much  pride?     She 

"  Her  forgiveness  ?  I  already  have  it.  You 
do  not  understand,  Mrs.  Kantrell;  neither 
you  nor  I,  who  bear  about  in  our  heart  vin- 
dictiveness  and  hatred,  can  understand  her! 
There  are  no  closed  chambers  in  her  heart,  in 
which  rancor  and  bitterness  live,  poisoning 
with  their  breath  the  very  walls  that  hold 
them.  They  are  all  open  to  the  light  of 
heaven  and  are  clean  and  sweet,  and  she  has 
peace,  cheerf ulness,  and  a  happy  home.  I  was 
once  a  sharer  of  her  home,  a  part  of  her  hap- 
piness, but  now  a  wanderer,  alone  everywhere, 
happy  nowhere;  and  with  the  doors  of  all  the 
hostelries  on  earth  open  to  me,  yet  always 
homeless.  Do  you  understand  now?  or  is  it 
too  monstrous  for  you  to  grasp — the  enormity 
of  throwing  away  a  priceless  gem  that  had 
been  committed  to  your  keeping! 
We  are  indeed  companions  in  grief,"  he  added 


180        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

after  a  pause.  '  You  may  have  digged  your 
son's  grave — I  have  digged  my  own!" 

"  But  you  have  hope,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  there  is  always  hope  in  life.  She  still  lives ; 

but  this "  she  pointed  to  the  mound  at  her 

feet.  They  both  looked  down  upon  it — then 
lapsed  into  a  thoughtful  silence. 

The  last  rites  of  a  belated  funeral  being 
conducted  not  far  from  them  were  drawing  to 
their  close.  The  minister's  voice,  in  the  hush 
that  followed  the  work  of  the  spades,  rose 
clear  and  distinct: 

"  Jesus  said  unto  her,  I  am  the  resurrection, 
and  the  life;  he  that  believeth  in  me,  though 
he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live:  And  whoso- 
ever liveth  and  believeth  in  me  shall  never  die. 
Believest  thou  this? " 

A  short  prayer  followed.  The  carriages 
were  soon  filled  with  the  mourners;  the  grind- 
ing sound  of  wheels,  as  they  moved  away  came 
fainter  and  fainter,  till  at  last  it  was  gone. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        181 

The  dusk  was  rapidly  closing  about  them. 
Morrison  arose  to  leave.  "  Shall  I  walk  with 
you  to  your  carriage? "  he  asked. 

"  No,  no,  I  often  stay  this  late.  This  is  one 
of  the  proofs  of  my  insanity — these  frequent 
visits  to  this  grave  and  the  lateness  of  my 
leaving." 

'  They  do  not  understand,"  he  answered, 
"but  I  do;  I  understand  your  insanity! " 

He  was  loath  to  leave  her  in  the  gathering 
twilight,  and  so  sauntered  slowly  toward  the 
entrance,  thinking  she  might  overtake  him. 

The  distant  monuments  had  been  blotted 
out,  and  the  nearer  ones  were  taking  on  gro- 
tesque shapes  as  he  wound  among  them. 
Already  had  the  heavens  begun  their  night- 
time work — to  "  declare  the  glory  of  God  " ; 
the  great  expansive  field  above,  strewn  with 
its  little  seeds  of  light,  was  fast  ripening  into 
a  harvest  of  stars,  and  far  on  its  outer  verge 
the  new  moon  lay  like  a  thin,  bright  sickle. 


182         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

The  silence  was  only  broken  by  his  own  foot- 
steps, the  fluttering  wings  of  a  homing  bird, 
or  the  frightened  leap  of  some  little  denizen  of 
this  seclusion,  whose  home  he  had  neared. 

"It  seems  very  peaceful  here,"  he  said; 
"  this  quiet  sleep  at  the  end  of  a  wearing 
journey  is  surely  good.  But  I  am  glad  that 
she  has  not  yet  lain  down  in  this  bed — that  this 
slumber  has  not  yet  pressed  down  her  eyelids. 
This  great  grief  has  been  spared  me.  That  has 
not  come  to  me,  and  I  shall  not  anticipate  it. 
It  may  never  come;  I  may  be  called  hence 
first.  I  hope  I  shall.  I  cannot  think  of  her 
dead" 

In  a  little  while  he  had  reached  the  entrance, 
where  he  boarded  a  waiting  car,  and  was  soon 
leaving  behind  the  cemetery,  with  its  peaceful 
silence,  and  speeding  on  to  the  city  of  the  liv- 
ing, the  noise  of  whose  traffic  shortly  came  to 
his  ears  like  the  sound  of  waves,  subdued,  not 
hushed,  by  the  night  and  darkness.  The  crim- 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         183 

son  glow  of  its  furnaces  lit  up  the  eastern  sky, 
and  frequent  intermittent  flashes,  told  of  the 
myriads  of  human  beings  hurrying  to  and  fro 
beneath  the  sparkling  wires  of  the  trolley. 

"  How  sharp  the  contrast  between  these 
cities,"  he  thought,  as  they  hastened  on,  "  not 
many  spans  apart,  and  yet  between,  the  un- 
fathomable abyss ! " 

With  these  and  kindred  musings  the  miles 
were  left  behind,  the  perspective  shortened, 
the  houses  crowded  together,  the  noises  grew 
in  volume,  and  he  was  presently  once  more  a 
part  of  the  turmoil — an  atom  in  the  great, 
restless  ocean. 

The  car  sped  past  the  street  on  which  he 
should  have  stopped.  Had  he  forgotten?  His 
hand  was  on  the  bell,  but  he  withdrew  it  with- 
out ringing.  "  I  will  walk  past  the  house,"  he 
said,  "  the  house  in  which  she  lives,  in  which 
she  wakes,  and  sleeps,  and  dreams.  Maybe  in 
the  long  reveries  that  come  to  her  waking  or 


184         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

sleeping  there  are  some  thoughts  of  me — 
maybe  some  kindly  thoughts."  Mrs.  Kan- 
trell's  words  had  found  lodgment  in  his  brain, 
and  more  than  once  he  repeated  them  reas- 
suringly to  himself,  "  while  those  we  love  still 
live,  there  is  hope." 

He  stopped  in  front  of  her  home.  No  one 
was  passing — why  not  gaze  to  satiety,  if  only 
on  the  walls  that  held  her? 

The  hall  and  lower  rooms  were  brilliantly 
lighted,  especially  the  library,  where  every  bulb 
was  contributing  its  incandescence  to  what 
seemed  to  Morrison  an  illumination.  A  passer- 
by might  have  thought  a  fete  in  progress, 
only  it  was  known  that  the  mistress  of  this 
house  never  gave  fetes.  The  blinds  had  not 
been  lowered,  and  between  the  curtains,  draped 
to  the  sides,  he  could  outline  some  of  the 
familiar  objects  within.  There,  on  the  farther 
wall,  hung  a  picture  that  had  been  given  her 
for  a  bridal  present,  The  Huguenots:  those 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         185 

sad  young  lovers,  in  whose  breasts  so  fiercely 
struggled  strong  human  love,  with  stronger 
principle;  the  frail,  sweet  girl  and  the  manly 
youth  beside  her,  her  face  of  passing  beauty 
turned  pleadingly  to  his,  urging  him  to  wear 
the  badge  that  meant  life;  his  face  calm,  lov- 
ing, but  unyielding  in  its  resolve.  Morrison 
recalled  vividly  the  day  the  picture  was  first 
hung  in  its  place — the  place  it  now  occupied — 
how  he  and  Gertrude  had  together  stood  look- 
ing at  it.  ff  Those  were  days  that  tried  men's 
souls,"  she  had  said,  "but  they  are  past,  and 
now  it  is  easy  to  be  true,  and  to  do  right."  Her 
arms  were  clasped  about  his  neck  and  he  was 
looking  down  into  her  face,  as  full  of  joy  and 
happiness  as  was  the  pictured  girl's  of  grief 
and  pain. 

There,  too,  was  the  piano,  around  which 
were  clustered  many  happy  memories.  Ger- 
trude made  no  pretensions  to  excellence  in 
music.  "  I  play  for  my  own  and  my  husband's 


186         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

pleasure,"  she  was  wont  to  say,  "  and  for  the 
amusement  of  my  friends."  But  she  sang 
ballads  sweetly,  in  a  tender,  sympathetic  voice 
with  no  aspirations  to  high  notes  or  scientific 
trills — a  mellow,  soft  contralto,  in  which  the 
words  were  rendered  as  distinctly  as  the  notes. 
His  memory  was  clear  and  true  to  him  to- 
night; he  could  see  her  singing,  and  hear  the 
words.  Sadder  they  seemed  than  ever  to  him 
now: 

"  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand  and  your  breath 

warm  on  my  cheek, 

And  I  still  keep  listening  for  the  words  you  never 
more  will  speak." 

While  he  stood  thus,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the 
familiar  interior,  living  again  with  delirious 
joy  those  other  days,  the  sliding  doors  oppo- 
site him  parted,  and  Gertrude  entered  the 
room.  He  started  involuntarily  and  came  a 
step  nearer.  Gertrude,  his  Gertrude — his  wife ! 
How  beautiful  she  looked,  and  not  a  day  older 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        187 

than  when  they  had  first  come  here  to  live,  a 
young  husband  and  wife.  This  was  a  large- 
ness of  reward  he  had  not  expected  when  he 
turned  into  the  street  only  to  pass  and  look  at 
the  house  which  held  her — he  had  not  thought 
to  see  her,  herself! 

But  now  she  stood  before  him  in  all  her 
loveliness,  and  his  hungry  eyes  feasted  them- 
selves as  a  famished  man  eats  food.  With 
feverish  haste  he  took  in  all  the  details.  He 
noted  how  carefully  she  was  gowned,  how 
beautifully  her  hair  was  dressed;  he  even  saw 
she  wore  no  rings,  and  that  her  jewels  were  the 
gift  of  her  aunt — not  his. 

But  someone  followed  her  into  the  room,  in 
fact  two,  but  he  had  no  eyes  for  the  other,  the 
woman ;  it  was  only  the  man  he  saw,  who,  saun- 
tering up  to  a  sofa  and  seating  himself,  began 
opening  a  paper  to  read,  with  a  homelike  air; 
just  in  the  way  he  would  have  done  himself — 
just  in  the  way  he  had  often  done  himself. 


188        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

Gertrude  approached  the  window  to  lower  the 
blind,  but  before  it  was  done  the  man  turned, 
and  he  saw  his  face.  He  started  back,  as  from 
a  blow — it  was  Granville  Collins. 

He  clutched  the  rail  against  which  he  was 
leaning.  The  hot  blood  surged  through  his 
veins — a  wild  cry  came  to  his  lips,  but  died 
before  it  was  uttered.  What  right  had  he  to 
say — to  think — to  do  anything! 

He  did  not  move,  but  looked  on,  half  dazed, 
at  the  bright  but  opaque  panel  behind  which 
he  knew  that  she  was  talking  with  the  man  who 
was  to  take  his  place  in  her  life !  Some  people 
passed  him  on  the  walk;  he  heard  their  half- 
subdued  comments ;  they  seemed  to  know  him, 
for  he  heard  his  name.  But  he  did  not  care. 

"  Ah,  Curtman,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  this 
is  the  work  of  your  own  hands  and  you  must 
look  on  it  the  rest  of  your  life — a  cup  of  your 
own  mixing  and  you  must  drink  it,  little  by 
little,  until  it  is  gone!  " 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         189 

He  turned  toward  his  hotel,  but  walked 
slowly  and  uncertainly,  like  one  not  sure  he 
was  in  the  road  he  wished  to  follow.  Once  he 
stopped  and  turned  as  if  to  retrace  his  steps. 
A  stony  look  came  into  his  eyes,  and  his  coun- 
tenance darkened  like  that  of  one  who  con- 
templates an  evil  deed — only  a  moment,  the 
next  he  had  resumed  his  walk  with  a  resolute 
step. 

Many  a  time,  in  after  years,  he  looked  back 
upon  this  moment,  thankful  that  he  had  been 
saved  from  making  still  more  miserable  his 
life,  and  blackening  his  soul  with  a  crime. 

When  he  reached  the  glare  of  the  corner 
drug  store,  someone  accosted  him.  It  was 
Jerry. 

"Is  this  you,  Boss?"  he  said;  "looks 
nachel  like  to  see  you  'roun'  in  this  part  er 
town." 

'  Yes — where  are  you  going,  Jerry?  " 

"'Roun'   to   Miss   Gertrue's.    They's   got 


190         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

comp'ny  tharr  ter-nite,  an'  you  kno'  whut  that 
means." 

Jerry  patted  significantly  that  part  of  his 
anatomy  not  far  removed  from  his  heart — it 
is  said  to  be  not  far  removed  from  any  man's 
heart — called  the  stomach.  "  No  hotel  supper 
fer  Jerre  ter-nite!  But,  Boss,"  he  added  after 
looking  more  closely  at  Morrison,  "  ain't  you 
sick?  You  suttenly  looks  like  you  wuz.  Jest 
that  white  an'  ashey!  My!  my!  Lemme  go 
in  here,"  nodding  toward  the  drug  store,  "  an' 
git  you  sumthin'  ter  take,  some  quinide  er 
bronide  er  sumthin'  nuther." 

Curtman  looked  as  colorless  as  Jerry  said, 
but  he  was  not  ill,  not  ill  in  body,  but  dis- 
traught— so  distraught  that  he  thought  of 
sending  a  message  to  Gertrude,  demanding  an 
interview ! 

Of  course,  the  next  instant  he  dismissed  it 
as  unworthy  consideration,  but  he  would  have 
Jerry  buy  him  some  medicine;  he  might  not 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         191 

take  it  to  be  sure,  but  Gertrude  would  hear  of 
it,  perchance,  and  think  that  he  was  ill.  And 
she  would  then  give  him  sympathy;  she  would 
give  that  to  the  veriest  stranger  that  crossed 
her  path,  and  he  had  been  her — husband. 
Surely  her  nature  had  not  been  altogether 
changed — her  new  happiness  had  not  turned 
her  heart  to  adamant.  Yes,  he  knew  she  would 
pity  him,  and  her  pity  was  more  to  him  than  the 
praise,  could  he  have  it,  of  the  whole  world. 
These,  and  many  like  rambling  thoughts, 
passed  through  his  mind  as  he  stood  listening 
to  Jerry. 

"Here,  Jerry,"  he  said,  at  length,  handing 
him  some  money,  "  you  may  get  me  something, 
quinine  or  anything.'* 

In  a  little  while  Jerry  was  back.  "  Here  it 
is,  Boss,"  he  said.  "  I  dunno  whut  it  iz,  but  the 
drug  man  sez  it's  fine.  I  'spec'  'twill  do  you 
a  sight  uv  good.  I'd  take  it  ef  I  wuz  you.  I'd 
go  straight  home  an'  take  it.  Heyr's  yer 


192        OUT   OF   THE  CASHES 

change ;  you  sent  fore  five  times  es  much  as  it 
cost." 

"  You  can  keep  the  change,"  said  Morrison, 
and  taking  the  package  resumed  his  trudge. 

"  The  Boss  suttenly  do  kno'  how  to  give 
tips,"  remarked  Jerry,  as  he  counted  over  the 
good-sized  coins  of  which  he  found  himself 
possessed.  "  Ef  all  the  gen'lmen  I  waits  on 
kno'd  es  much  'bout  tippin  es  he  does,  I 
could  putty  soon  go  out  of  the  hotel  bizness  an' 
be  a  barber." 

Along  this  line  Jerry  thought  quite 
seriously,  as  he  journeyed  on  toward  the  good 
dinner  he  had  promised  himself,  weighing  the 
advantages  against  the  disadvantages  of  a 
change  of  occupation.  The  arguments  in  its 
favor,  whatever  they  were,  were  nullified  by 
the  acceptance  of  the  old-time  saying,  that  just 
here  came  to  his  mind,  "  Let  well  enough 
alone." 

'  What  would  you  look  like,  nigger,"  he 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES         193 

soliloquized,  "  ef  some  day  when  you  wuz 
a-shavin'  some  man,  you  wuz  ter  let  the  razer 
slip  an'  cut  his  throte,  an'  then  git  hung  fer  it! 
How'd  yer  like  ter  wake  up  some  mornin'  an' 
fine  yerself  hung  out  on  a  gallus  to  arr?  You'se 
gittin'  'long  [well  miff  es  it  iz  an'  whut  you 
wan'  do  eny  differ'nt  fer?  You  needn't  try  to 
lay  up  no  money — it  ain't  the  rich  folks  that's 
hap'yust;  look  at  Miss'er  Cu'tmun.  Ef  you 
wuz  to  die,  let  Didamy  wuk  fer  herseff  er  git 
some  other  nigger  to  wuk  fer  her.  No,  Jerre, 
you  ain't  got  nuthin'  to  bother  'bout." 

The  next  minute  this  care- free  sentiment 
was  expressed  in  the  song  that  rang  out  as  he 
hurried  on  to  the  good  dinner: 

"  Hat  on  my  hed'  an'  shoes  on  my  feet 
What  mo'  need  I  care  ?  " 


CHAPTER    XIV 

"  There  is  hope  that  is  never  put  by, 
There  is  love  that  refuses  to  die." 

A  FEW  evenings  later  Morrison  received  in  his 
room  a  call  from  Granville.  He  would  not 
have  responded  to  the  knock,  had  he  known 
who  craved  admission. 

He  considered  the  call  effrontery,  but  got 
along  with  his  visitor  wonderfully  well  under 
the  circumstances.  They  talked  of  the  market, 
politics,  and  events  of  public  interest — things 
as  far  removed  from  what  was  in  their  hearts 
as  they  could  possibly  find,  only  now  and  then 
making  any  mention  whatever  of  things  per- 
sonal. 

Morrison  had  congratulated  himself  more 
than  once  that  the  visit  was  drawing  to  a  close 
without  anything  disagreeable  having  oc- 

194 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         195 

curred.  He  hated  scenes  and  had  resolved 
there  should  be  none,  but  he  would  be  glad 
when  this  man's  interview  was  ended. 

There  need  never  be  another — a  street  ac- 
quaintance should  be  quite  enough  for  them. 
All  this  he  thought  as  he  sat  talking  with 
studied,  or  rather  stilted  politeness  to  his 
visitor. 

After  a  pause,  somewhat  longer  than  the 
many  that  had  marked  this  interview,  Gran- 
ville  said: 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  talk  with  you  for 
some  time  past,  Morrison,  ever  since  I  last 
came  from  New  York,  but  somehow — I  could 
never  get  an  opportunity.  And  then,  too — I 
felt  you  were  trying  to  avoid  me " 

;<  Well?  "  Curtman  replied,  with  the  expres- 
sion of  face  and  voice  of  one  prepared  to  hear 
something  disagreeable. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"  That   is   something   that   generally   calls 


196         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

forth  the  congratulations  of  friends,"  replied 
Morrison  dryly. 

"  It  most  assuredly  ought.    You  know  that 

yourself,   Morrison.    That  is — I   mean 

he  added  in  embarrassment,  suddenly  recalling 
that  Morrison  had  had  trouble  in  his  wedded 
life. 

"You  saw  my  bachelor  apartments?" 

Morrison  retained  only  a  general  impression 
of  them;  the  only  time  he  had  ever  been  in 
them  he  was  in  no  condition  to  receive,  (much 
less  retain),  accurate  impressions. 

"Forgotten?  Well,  they  are  among  the 
handsomest  in  the  city.  I  selected  and  fur- 
nished them  with  reference  to  living  out  a 
bachelor's  life  and  made  them  as  home-like  as 
I  could.  Somehow  I  hadn't  cared  to  marry 
since  I  was  young — that  is,  since  I  first  went 
into  society,  for  I  refuse  to  call  a  man  five  and 
thirty  old.  I  got  a  back-set  then,  in  my  first 
love  affair." 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        197 

Here  Morrison  felt  resentful  at  the  know- 
ing look  he  gave  him.  What  business  had  he 
to  refer  to  those  days  when  they  were  both 
lovers  of  Gertrude!  But  he  had  himself  well 
in  hand  and  gave  no  expression  to  his  anger — 
this  man  should  not  so  much  as  see,  much  less 
triumph  over  his  humiliation. 

"  I  say  I  tried  to  make  my  apartments  a 
home,"  Granville  continued,  "  but  that  is 
something  tables,  and  rugs,  and  bric-a-brac 
can't  do,  even  when  supplemented  with  good 
service,  as  are  mine.  It  takes  a  wife  to  round 
out  things  into  a  home.  God  knew  at  '  the 
beginning  of  the  creation '  that  it  was  *  not 
good  that  the  man  should  be  alone';  and  I 
think  it  is  not  much  better,  if  any,  for  some 
of  us  to  be  alone  now  than  it  was  for  Adam 
then. 

"  I'm  tired,  heartily  tired,  of  suppers,  and 
clubs,  and  such  like,  living  on  the  outside — of 
being  nothing  to  anybody,  and  knowing  it. 


198         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

Now  a  man  can  be  fooled  on  this  point  for  a 
long  time.  He  can  be  duped  into  thinking  he 
is  something  to  somebody,  but  he  comes  at 
length  to  find  out  his  mistake.  The  discovery 
may  hurt  him,  but  it  will  help  him.  He  will 
learn  to  rightly  estimate  some  things  he  has 
been  underrating.  Put  out  a  flambeau  and 
you  will  see  the  stars." 

Morrison  agreed  this  time  readily  and 
heartily  with  what  he  said. 

"  And  so  I  am  going  to  marry.  And  I  must 
own  that  I  thought  it  was  on  account  of  the — 
relationship — that  you  were  trying  to  avoid 
me.  I  thought  you  might  have — heard  about 
it,  and  naturally  felt  constrained." 

Morrison  felt  that  his  face  was  hot,  but  saw 
to  it  that  his  voice  was  cool. 

"I  have  heard  nothing  about  it  whatever," 
he  replied,  calmly.  '  Whom  do  you  marry? 
Excuse  me,  though,"  he  added  on  noticing,  he 
thought,  a  look  of  reluctance  on  Granville's 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         199 

face,  "  I  withdraw  my  question;  I  don't  insist 
on  your  confidence." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  hesitate  to  tell  you ;  it  is  what 
I  came  here  for.  It  is  Alice  Farrell.  You 
know  she  is — Gertrude's  niece." 

"Alice  Farrell — can  it  be  possible!  Give 
me  your  hand,  old  comrade ;  here  is  mine  with 
sincere  congratulations — hearty  congratula- 
tions." 

"  She  looks  much  like  Gertrude — — " 

"  Oh !  very  much — that  is,  I  have  no  doubt 
she  does.  I've  not  seen  her  since  she  was  a 
child.  And  it  is  Alice  you  are  about  to  marry. 
Alice  and  not — oh,  yes,  I  understand,  I  un- 
derstand; you  thought  I  might  resent  your 
marrying — Gertrude's  niece." 

"  Yes,  that  is  just  what  I  thought,"  and 
Granville  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
heartily.  "  What  queer  pranks  one's  imagina- 
tion can  play.  Here  I  have  been  thinking  you 
(quite  cool  and  '  offish '  with  me,  and,  lo !  I  find 


200        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

you  willing  for  the  marriage,  ready  to  give  the 
bride  away,  if  she  belonged  to  you !  " 

Morrison  laughed — but  not  for  the  same 
reason — and  talked  on,  delirious  with  happi- 
ness. 

"  Here,  I  must  drink  your  health,  my  friend. 
I  have  a  bottle  of  the  best  wine  made — fifty 

years  old "  He  went  to  the  cabinet  and 

opened  the  door,  "  but  what  am  I  thinking 
about,  I  sent  that  wine  by  Beverley  to  his  wife 
— I'll  have  to  pledge  you  in  water;  and  after 
all  what  is  better  than  water  for  one's  thirst! 
Here's  to  you,"  and  handing  him  a  glass  lifted 
another  to  his  own  lips,  "  may  your  love  be  as 
pure  and  good  as  this.  Let  nothing  come  be- 
tween you,  Granville,"  he  added  earnestly,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  Granville's  shoulder  and 
looking  straight  into  his  eyes.  "  You  under- 
stand. 

"Don't  go,  Granville,"  Morrison  insisted, 
as  the  former  arose  and  moved  toward  the 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        201 

door — "  don't  go  yet ;  we  must  take  a  smoke  to- 
gether ;  the  *  pipe  of  peace,'  as  you  thought  I 
was  at  war  with  you."  And  again  he  laughed. 

"  No,  it's  too  late  now,"  said  Granville,  con- 
sulting his  watch;  "  it  is  nearly  twelve." 

"  Is  it  possible?  I  had  no  idea  it  was  that 
late.  Take  these  cigars  with  you,  then,  if  you 
must  go.  I  brought  them  with  me  from  Ha- 
vana— the  very  best  on  the  market.  Oh !  don't 
be  niggardly  with  yourself;  take  more — all  of 
them,"  and  he  thrust  the  box  into  his  hand. 

'  What  a  fine  man  Collins  is,"  Curtman  ex- 
claimed as  soon  as  the  former  was  out  of  the 
door.  "A  fine  man.  He  has  been  elected 
President  of  the  Blanker  Banking  Co.,  which 
means  that  his  rating  is  first-class  in  the  busi- 
ness world.  I'm  not  surprised,  not  at  all  sur- 
prised. He  has  lived  fast,  but  that  day  is 
gone,  long  ago;  a  noble  fellow  and  will  make 
Alice  a  capital  husband!  And,"  he  kept  on, 
pausing  in  the  hasty  strides  he  was  making 


202         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

back  and  forth  through  the  room,  "it  is  not 
Gertrude  he  marries — oh,  it  is  not  Gertrude! 
God  is  good !  " 

The  relief  that  Granville's  announcement 
brought  to  Morrison's  mind  is  difficult  of  con- 
ception ;  he,  himself,  could  not  have  put  it  into 
words  had  he  tried.  His  sleep  that  night  was 
sweet  and  sound,  such  sleep  as  he  had  not 
known  for  months.  He  met  Granville  the  fol- 
lowing day  on  the  street,  or  rather  overtook 
him;  for  seeing  him  a  square  ahead,  he  quick- 
ened his  speed  that  he  might  walk  with  him 
and  hear  from  him  again  that  it  was  Alice 
Farrell  whom  he  was  to  marry. 

"  Good-morning,  Granville,"  he  called  while 
hardly  yet  abreast;  "  you  get  over  the  ground 
at  such  a  rapid  rate  these  days  that  common 
mortals,  heavier  of  foot,  can  hardly  get  in 
hailing  distance." 

"  Good-morning;  I  was  not  aware  of  my 
rapid  gait." 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         203 

"  Rapid ! — you  travel  as  if  shod  with  wings ! 
I  thought  I  would  overtake  you  and  renew  my 
congratulations ;  and  then,  too,  I  must  own  up 
to  curiosity.  How  did  it  come  about,  Gran- 
ville?  where  did  you  meet  Alice? " 

"  At  Atlantic  City ;  but  it's  a  long  story,  too 
long  to  tell  you  now.  But  I  will  tell  you  some 
time,  and  soon." 

"  Oh!  I  know  you  can't  tell  me  now;  in  fact, 
I  won't  force  your  confidence,  old  boy,  but  I 
wanted  to  be  sure  the  cloud  between  us  was 
lifted,  and  to  hear  from  your  own  lips  and  in 
the  daytime  at  that,  that  you  were  to  marry 
Alice  Farrell.  I  was  wondering  if  I  could 
have  dreamed  it." 

"  No  dream,  Curtman — it  is  a  fact  and  one 
of  the  best  facts  that  ever  came  my  way. 
Here's  my  hand  for  the  continuance  of  the  old 
friendship,  and  I'll  say  at  the  same  time,  fare- 
well, as  we'll  not  likely  meet  again  to-day,  as 
I  leave  to-night  for  New  York.  When  next 


204         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

you  see  me  in  Chicago  you  will  see  Mrs.  Col- 
lins with  me." 

And  so  they  parted,  little  knowing  what 
changes  would  come  between  this  farewell  and 
their  next  meeting.  How  good  that  "  what  lies 
before  us,  pleasure  or  pain,"  is  not  ours  to 
know.  How  hard  it  would  be  to  bear  to-day's 
sorrow,  knowing  a  greater  one  awaited  us  on 
the  morrow,  or  to  keep  at  monotonous  work- 
a-day  duties  with  a  cup  of  bliss  nearing,  almost 
in  reach  of,  our  outstretched  hand ! 

"  Happy  man  to  get  such  a  wife  as  Alice — 
if  she  is  indeed  like  Gertrude;  and  happy 
woman  to  get  such  a  man  as  Collins  for  a  hus- 
band. He  has  not  his  equal  in  this  or  any 
town!" 

So  mused  Morrison  as  he  walked  along  to- 
ward his  business  house.  "  I  shall  give  them 
a  bridal  present;  it  shall  be  a  present  worthy 
my  friend  and — Gertrude's  niece.  I  believe 
I'll  give  them  Blueblood.  I  paid  eight  hun- 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         205 

dred  for  him  in  Kentucky  and  have  refused  a 
thousand  for  him  here.  I  never  use  him  now. 
So  high  a  perch  as  the  driver's  is  unbecoming 
me.  I  keep  to  where  I  belong — close  to  the 
ground.  Alice  is  marrying  well — well.  It's 
an  easy  task  for  her  to  love  Collins — an  easy 
task — I  love  him  myself/' 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  In  all  this  world,  as  thinketh  me, 
Is  none  so  pleasant  to  my  e'e." 

GRANVILLE.,  on  finding  that  Morrison  took  so 
kindly  the  announcement  of  his  engagement 
to  Alice  Farrell,  thought  of  telling  him  the 
particulars  of  their  meeting  and  some  of  the 
summer's  romance,  but  forbore.  The  hour 
was  late,  and  besides,  interwoven  with  the 
story,  was  a  name  he  thought  it  best  to  leave 
uncalled,  a  name  they  had  never  yet  mentioned 
to  each  other.  And  so  he  left  what  he  had 
thought  to  tell  untold. 

One  morning,  in  the  early  part  of  the  sum- 
mer past,  as  Granville  sat  breakfasting  at  one 
of  the  hotels  in  Atlantic  City,  he  noticed,  not 
far  from  him  at  one  of  the  tables,  a  young 
woman,  menu  card  in  hand,  giving  an  order  to 
the  waiter  at  her  side. 

206 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        207! 

"  That  is  Gertrude,"  he  said  to  himself,  a 
broad  smile  covering  his  face,  and  was  about 
to  arise  from  his  scarcely  finished  meal  to 
go  speak  to  her  when  he  perceived  his  mis- 
take. 

Moreover,  at  this  juncture,  Gertrude  her- 
self came  into  the  room,  and,  proceeding  to  the 
aforementioned  young  woman,  seated  herself 
by  her,  and  forthwith  they  began  conversing 
in  the  familiar,  friendly  way  of  sisters,  mother 
and  daughter,  or  relatives  of  some  near  de- 
gree. 

;<  This  is  strange,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  but," 
after  a  few  moments'  reflection  added,  "I 
have  already  solved  it;  this  dual  is  Gertrude's 
niece.  This  is  her  sister's  daughter;  but  far 
more  like  her  aunt  than  like  her  mother." 

Here  Granville  grew  reminiscent  and 
painted  for  himself  many  pictures  of  the  days 
when  he  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  Bramlet 
home,  in  those  days  when  Gertrude  was  grow- 


208        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

ing  up  to  womanhood  and  this  married  sister, 
Mrs.  Farrell,  was  coming  back  on  visits. 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  realize  the  lapse  of 
time  and  that  here,  before  him,  was  Mrs.  Far- 
rell's  daughter,  then  a  child,  now  a  grown 
woman.  "  And  how  much  like  Gertrude  at  her 
age,"  he  kept  reiterating  to  himself,  seizing 
every  opportunity,  when  she  was  unobservant, 
to  scan  the  features,  that  had  for  him  such 
a  pleasingly  familiar  look. 

"  Alas  for  the  men  she  meets,  if  she  is  alto- 
gether like  her  aunt,"  he  sighed. 

He  could  not  wait  to  see  them  in  the  parlor 
or  hall,  he  would  not  run  the  risk  of  losing  his 
old  friend;  so  hastily  folding  his  unread  paper, 
walked  over  to  speak  with  her  while  they  were 
waiting  to  be  served. 

"  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Ger- 
trude," he  said,  extending  his  hand. 

"  And  a  mutual  one,"  she  answered,  giving 
him  hers  in  return,  accompanying  it  with  her 


OUT  OF   THE  ASHES        209 

sweet  urbanity — a  rare  combination  of  dig- 
nity and  cordiality.  Why  is  it  that  it  is  rare — 
why  should  it  be  rare? 

"  I  was  so  afraid  you  were  a  bird  of  passage 
and  had  only  stopped  here  to  take  on  a  supply 
of  bird  seed,  so  to  speak,  that  I  hurried  over 
to  speak  to  you  before  you  had  accomplished 
your  purpose  and  flown.  Now  we  men 
couldn't  be  civil  before  '  feeding/  you  know — 
it  would  never  have  occurred  to  me  to  go  up 
and  talk  with  a  man  before  he  had  breakfasted, 
but  you  women  are  always  docile " 

"Mr.  Collins,  this  is  my  niece,  Miss  Far- 
rell." 

From  the  pretty  way  in  which  Miss  Farrell 
acknowledged  the  introduction,  her  happy 
combination  of  dignity  and  cordiality,  Gran- 
ville  saw  at  once  that  she  resembled  her  aunt 
in  more  ways  than  one. 

"  Do  you  know,  Gertrude,"  Granville  con- 
tinued, "that  I  was  taken  off  my  feet  with 


210        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

surprise  when  I  looked  over  here  and  saw  your 
niece.  I  thought  her  you,  yourself!  " 

"  The  resemblance  must  indeed  be  striking; 
we  are  often  told  we  are  alike." 

"  I  am  frequently  so  flattered,"  Alice  smil- 
ingly remarked. 

"Well  put,  Miss  Farrell,"  replied  Gran- 
ville — "  it's  a  piece  of  delicate  flattery  you 
can  exchange  with  each  other.  I'm  not  going 
to  say  to  which  belongs  the  larger  share  of  the 
compliment — I  have  no  intention  of  starting 
an  internecine  war.  But  tell  me  about  your- 
selves; let  me  know  what  to  expect?  Are  you 
en  passant,  or  permanent  guests,  here  for  a 
day,  week,  or  month?  Are  you  will-o'-the- 
wisps,  or  what? " 

"  We  expect  to  be  here  several  weeks,"  Ger- 
trude answered,  "  long  enough  for  you  to  get 
heartily  tired  of  us,  if  you  are  yourself  a  fix- 
ture. Are  you,  or  what  are  you?  " 

"  Well,  I've  changed  my  mind  since  I  came 


OUT  OF   THE  ASHES        211 

into  the  room;  I  had  thought  to  stay  a  fort- 
night ;  I  now  expect  to  stay  as  long  as  you  two 
are  here.  I'm  spending  my  vacation  some- 
where, why  not  here?" 

Gertrude  and  Alice  both  expressed  pleasure 
on  hearing  this.  "  For  though,"  as  Gertrude 
went  on  to  explain,  "  we  are  both  old  enough 
to  travel  about  where  we  please  unchallenged, 
yet " 

"It  is  always  a  dangerous  experiment  for 
pretty  women." 

"Now,  Mr.  Collins,"  laughed  Alice,  "I 
much  suspect  you  belong  in  the  category  with 
Stanley." 

:<  The  explorer?  I  protest,  I'm  innocent  of 
the  charge.  I'm  neither  explorer  nor  discov- 
erer. I  never  discovered  anything  in  my 
life." 

"But  wait;  I'll  prove  that  you  are,"  she 
replied,  "  I've  heard  that  Stanley  said  he  never 
saw  an  ugly  woman.  Now,  we  would  have 


212        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

thought  in  the  heart  of  the  lands  he  had  ex- 
plored, he  had  seen  some  uncouth  females  that 
we  would  have  pronounced  ugly.  He  seems 
to  have  discovered  beauty  in  the  face  of  every 
woman,  or  at  least  said  he  did,  if  he  be  cor- 
rectly quoted." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  say  that  about 
every  woman;  but  I'm  not  going  to  pay  you 
another  compliment.  You  women  are  vora- 
cious of  sweets,  and  I  know,  too,  how  to  make 
good  sweets;  but  I'm  not  going  to  give  you 
another  morsel — at  present." 

"  You  interrupted  me,"  resumed  Mrs.  Curt- 
man,  "  you  keep  on  interrupting  me — I  was 
about  saying,  that  although  we  can,  and  do, 
travel  alone,  it  is  certainly  more  agreeable  to 
run  across  acquaintances,  and  a  positive  pleas- 
ure to  meet  a  friend  one  has  known  the  greater 
part  of  one's  life." 

"  It  is  undoubtedly  the  case  with  me.  I'm 
certainly  glad  of  this  meeting  and  herewith  put 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         213 

myself  at  the  disposal  of  your  ladyships,  be- 
seeching you  to  make  use  of  me  in  any  way 
that  '  pleasures  your  dainty  whim.' ' 

"Take  care!  You  may  repent  of  this," 
replied  Alice,  looking  up  into  his  face  with 
an  arch  smile  that  set  some  old  tunes  to  ringing 
in  his  heart. 

"  But  I  must  leave  you  now,"  he  said;  "  I 
see  your  breakfast  coming,  and  I  can't  endure 
the  disillusion  that  may  come  with  it.  I  can't 
stand  seeing  you  descend  to  my  plane  to  nag 
the  waiter  because  the  steak  is  tough  and  the 
coffee  weak.  Nor  can  I  put  up  with  your 
taking  more  interest  in  the  muffins  than  in  me. 
Never!" 

"  Why,  Aunt  Gertrude,"  said  Alice,  as  she 
watched  him  move  off,  "  what  a  handsome  and 
agreeable  man  is  Mr.  Collins.  I  wonder  that 
you  did  not  impress  me  more  in  speaking  of 
him — I've  often  heard  you  mention  him,  but 
somehow  I  did  not  gather  from  your  remarks 


214         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

the  favorable  impression  that  he  makes  him- 
self." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  how  it  happened.  I 
can't  tell,  unless  when  we  were  all  young  to- 
gether, his  friend  who  came  often  with  him  to 
see  me  was  so  far  his  superior,  or  so  seemed  to 
me,  that  I  maybe  undervalued  him.  .  .  . 
We  can't  always  explain  ourselves,  Alice — in 
fact,  we  cannot  always  understand  ourselves." 

Mr.  Collins  was  as  good  as  his  promise, 
and  did  all  in  his  power  to  contribute  to  their 
pleasure — indeed,  taxed  his  ingenuity  in  con- 
triving ways  to  be  with  them  in  some  capacity 
or  other  as  much  as  he  desired  without  boring 
them.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Bernley  were,  after  a 
fashion,  companions  of  Gertrude's;  that  is, 
Mrs.  Bernley  was  one  of  her  girlhood  friends 
with  whom  she  had  always  kept  in  touch 
through  correspondence,  even  after  the  latter's 
marriage  and  removal  to  Philadelphia. 

"  I  am  gladder  than  I  can  tell  you,  Ger- 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         215 

trude,"  she  said  the  first  night  of  her  arrival, 
as  they  met  in  the  parlor,  "  that  I  find  you 
here.  You  are,  of  all  my  friends,  the  one  I 
would  have  chosen  to  meet.  I  know  of  no  one 
in  the  whole  world,  who  could  so  well  help  me 
with  my  scheme  as  you." 

:<  That  depends,"  laughed  Gertrude. 

'  Your  willingness  doesn't  depend,  if  you 
are  the  Gertrude  I  used  to  know.  I  suspect, 
too,  I  can  count  on  you  as  of  yore." 

"What  is  your  scheme?"  asked  Gertrude. 
"  I'm  curious  to  know." 

"  It  is  this,"  she  explained.  "  Dr.  Bernley 
is  broken  down,  almost  in  nervous  prostration, 
from  close  and  long-continued  attention  to  his 
practice;  he  needs  this  salt  air  and  rest.  He 
knows  it  himself,  admits  it,  but  says  he  has 
not  time  for  the  treatment ;  and,  moreover,  that 
the  idleness  will  bore  him  more  than  the  pre- 
scription benefit.  I  have  persuaded  him  to 
come  here  for  a  four  weeks'  stay,  and  I  want 


216         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

you  to  help  me  keep  him  here.  This  is  indeed 
odd,"  she  laughed  out  merrily,  "  for  a  woman 
to  ask  another  woman  to  help  her  carry  a  point 
with  her  husband!  but  I  do  this  very  thing, 
Gertrude.  You  were  born  magnetic ;  you  must 
know  it  yourself.  Now  use  your  magnetism 
to  help  your  friend." 

"  What  must  I  do?    What  is  my  role? " 

"Just  be  your  dear,  agreeable  self  to  Dr. 
Bernley,  and  help  me  interest  him  in  every- 
thing from  the  merry-go-rounds  on  up.  You 
must  help  me  keep  him  here  by  the  sea." 

Gertrude  was  easily  committed.  With  her, 
the  sense  of  serving  gave  added  zest  to 
pleasure. 

But  the  task  she  undertook  was  not  the 
easiest  she  had  essayed.  This  she  discovered 
soon  after  meeting  Dr.  Bernley.  He  was 
gentlemanly  in  manner  and  scholarly  in  at- 
tainments, but  slow  in  conversation,  lacking 
the  small  change  of  words,  that  pass  in  social 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         217 

currency  along  with  the  heavier  coins  of 
thought. 

The  sickness  and  suffering  with  which  he 
was  so  closely  brought  in  contact  might  have 
accentuated  a  nature  of  a  serious  trend,  but 
for  all  he  looked  so  glum,  he  was  at  heart  an 
optimist,  confessed  the  worth  of  sunshine  and 
cheerfulness,  prescribed  them  for  his  patients 
and  declared  his  willingness  to  take  them,  too, 
if  he  had  time. 

As  for  Mrs.  Bernley's  scheme,  it  worked  suc- 
cessfully, and  she  soon  saw  her  husband  safely 
on  the  list  of  those  who  liked  or  rather  loved 
Gertrude. 

"  She  has  such  a  knack  of  bringing  out  the 
commendable  in  a  fellow,  of  showing  him  off 
at  his  best  paces,"  he  said ;  "  she  listens  so  at- 
tentively while  a  man  airs  his  views,  and  if  she 
disagrees  does  it  so  tactfully,  and  gently,  that 
he  finds  it  easy  to  change  sides  and  agree  with 
her.  Moreover,"  he  added,  "  the  more  he  talks 


218        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

of  her,  the  more  he  comes  to  know  her  views 
are  generally  the  better  views  and  well  worth 
adopting! " 

Mr.  Collins  gladly  included  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Bernley  in  his  excursions,  rowing,  yachting, 
or  whatever  they  might  be;  in  fact,  he  rather 
liked  having  these  added  guests,  for  it  was 
fast  coming  to  the  pass  that  he  was  pleased  to 
have  it  wholly  left  to  him  to  entertain  Alice, 
and  he  was  beginning,  moreover,  to  see  that 
Alice  was  an  improvement  on  Gertrude! 

Gertrude  saw  this  and  was  heartily  glad ;  she 
was  not  the  woman  to  rejoice  in  holding  for 
aye  the  love  that  she  could  not  reciprocate. 
She  did  not  care  for  a  string  of  hearts,  over 
which  to  gloat  as  an  Indian  over  his  victims' 
scalps.  It  was  all  at  last  being  properly 
adjusted,  and  Granville's  sentiment  for  her, 
becoming  what  hers  had  always  been  for  him, 
a  strong,  sweet  friendship,  nothing  more. 

"  The  love  of  the  only  man  whose  love  was 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        219 

mine  by  right  I  could  not  hold,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  I  will  accept  that  of  no  other,  nor 
stand  between  anyone  and  happiness.  I  do 
not  expect,  I  do  not  desire,  that  anyone 
shall  share  with  me  my  burden.  I  have  been 
given  strength  to  bear  it;  it  is  at  home  on  no 
other  shoulders.  'My  grief  is  my  own — but 
my  heart  is  full  of  peace/  ' 

Gertrude  was  not  surprised,  nor  did  she 
affect  surprise,  wrhen  Alice  told  her,  to  what 
plane  the  affair  between  her  and  Granville 
had  climbed.  She  had  watched  the  ascent,  with 
an  interest  of  which  they  were  not  aware. 

"  Do  you  know,  Aunt  Gertrude,"  she  began 
in  the  round-about  way  in  which  a  woman 
knows  how  to  divulge  something  she  has  been 
hiding  as  a  secret,  "  that  I  don't  look  upon  Mr. 
Collins  as  upon  the  other  men  who  have  loved 
me — or  said  they  did?  I  either  said  '  No '  out 
and  out  to  the  others,  or  made  some  evasive 
reply  till  I  could  get  rid  of  them,  but " 


220        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

'  You  find  it  more  difficult  to  get  rid  of 
him?" 

"  Get  rid  of  him!  Why,  I  don't  intend  to 
get  rid  of  him.  .  .  .  You  don't  understand, 
Aunt  Gertrude,  ...  I  care  for  him 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do  understand,  my  dear ;  and 
if  he  loves  you  I'm  glad  that  you  '  care '  for 
him  as  you  say.  I  hope  that  care  with  you  is 
only  another  name  for  love." 

"  It  is,"  she  said  in  a  lowered  voice.  Ger- 
trude noted,  but  said  nothing,  of  the  heightened 
color  that  accompanied  this  confession. 

There  was  a  little  silence,  during  which 
neither  looked  directly  at  the  other.  In  a  little 
while  Alice  continued: 

"  I  believe  he  thinks  more  of  me  than 
any  suitor  has  ever  thought  of  me.  Maybe, 
though,"  and  she  laughed  the  conscious  laugh 
of  the  woman  who  knows  she  is  loved,  "it  is 
because  I  want  it  to  be  so.  He  seems  so 
happy.  ...  I  wish  you  could  hear  him  talk  1 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         221 

He  loved  some  woman  long  ago,  when  he  was 
young,  he  says,  and  had  somehow  come  to 
think  he  would  never  love  another,  although 
she  married,  and  passed  forever  out  of  his 
life." 

"Did  he  give  her — name?" 

"  No,  and  I  didn't  ask  it.  I  don't  care  to 
know — why  should  I  ?  " 

'  You  are  wise,  my  dear;  what  possible  good 
would  it  do  you  to  know  the  name  of  someone 
he  loved  away  back  in  his  past,  long  before  he 
knew  you." 

"  I  don't  care ;  I  have  his  present  love ;  let 
his  past  love  go." 

'  Yes,  it  is  only  the  love  a  man  gives  in 
marriage  that  is  a  woman's  '  to  have  and  to 
hold.' " 

"  It  was  likely  a  shallow,  youthful  fancy," 
Alice  kept  on,  "  I  dare  say  the  girl  was  some 
simple  little  purring  creature,  of  whom  he 
would  be  ashamed  now.  I  suspect  he  heartily 


222         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

congratulates  himself  that  he  is  not  tied  to  her. 
I'm  certainly  glad  that  he  is  not." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed 
heartily.  Gertrude's  face  was  averted — she 
kept  it  averted.  What  explanation  could  she 
have  given  Alice  for  the  merriment  that  over- 
spread it? 

"Well,  I  heartily  congratulate  you,"  said 
Gertrude,  at  length,  and  putting  her  arm 
around  her  kissed  the  happy  face  turned 
toward  hers. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

"  Better  a  thousand  times,  to  bear 
A  blow  in  the  place  of  an  earned  caress, 
Than  to  turn  aside  into  selfish  ways 
Or  to  pity  less. 

"  Better  the  long  abiding  pain 
Of  a  wronged  love,  in  its  sufferance  meek, 
Than  the  hardened  heart  and  the  bitter  tongue 
And  the  sullen  cheek." 

COLLINS,  as  well  as  Gertrude  and  Alice,  was 
among  the  guests  of  an  excursion  party  given 
by  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Bernley.  The  ocean  was 
calm,  the  breezes  balmy,  and  the  day  proved 
a  pleasant  one  to  all  aboard  the  yacht  on  which 
they  were  being  entertained.  On  the  home- 
ward sail  they  met  with  some  belating  hin- 
drance, so  that  night  came  down  upon  them, 
before  they  reached  the  pier  from  which  they 
had,  that  morning,  launched.  But  no  one 

223 


224        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

aboard  regretted  the  delay.  What  could  they 
find  at  the  end  of  their  route  more  delightful 
or  beautiful  than  what  they  then  enjoyed? — 
the  cool  night  air;  the  dimly  outlined  coast, 
with  hamlets  picked  out  in  points  of  light ;  the 
lapping  music  of  the  waves  about  the  vessel's 
sides ;  and  the  full  moon,  not  yet  far  above  the 
horizon,  flooding  the  air  with  radiance,  and 
making  a  path  of  silver  across  the  water. 

To  some  of  the  party  this  beauty  was  an 
exhilarant,  and  the  exuberance  of  their  feelings 
ran  over  in  song;  to  others  it  was  silencing. 
Among  these  was  Gertrude,  who  sat  listening 
to  the  music  of  the  waves,  and  living  over  a  day 
of  her  honeymoon,  which  she  and  her  young 
husband  had  spent  upon  these  waters,  maybe 
on  this  very  boat. 

Granville  and  Alice  sat  apart,  too  much  in- 
terested in  each  other  to  effect  an  interest  in 
the  other  guests. 

"  Do  you  know,  Alice,"  he  said  at  length  at 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         225 

the  end  of  one  of  those  sweet  silences  in  which 
lovers  talk  to  each  other — (the  wireless  teleg- 
raphy they  have  used  many  a  day — long  before 
Marconi  startled  the  world  with  his  discovery) 
— "  do  you  know  that  I  feel  like  Gertrude 
suspects  our  love  affair?  " 

Alice  laughed  her  inimitable  laugh.  "  What 
a  suspicious  man  you  are,  to  be  sure !  or  are  all 
men  suspicious?  What  makes  you  think  so?  " 

'  Well,  for  one  thing,  she  leaves  us  to  our- 
selves, as  if  she  feared  being  de  trop" 

"  As  for  that,  Aunt  Gertrude  likes  to  be  to 
herself;  she  enjoys  sitting  and  dreaming.  But 
to  be  honest  with  you,  she  does  know.  I  told 
her.  You  don't  care,  do  you?  She  was 
pleased." 

"Care!  Not  I.  I'm  glad  of  it,  but— I'm  a 
little  curious  to  know  how  you  told  her.  Did 
she  ask  you  ?  Or  did  you  go  running  into  her 
room  one  day  crying  out:  *  It's  just  as  I 
expected — another  simpleton  has  proposed ' ! " 


226        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

'  You  know  that  never  occurred,"  Alice  re- 
plied, and  lowering  her  voice,  she  said:  "I 
told  her  how  glad  you  said  you  were  to  find 
you  could  love  again — that  away  back  in  your 
young  days,  you  had  loved  a  woman  so  much, 
that  never  until  now,  had  you  cared  for 
another." 

"Did  you  tell  her  that?  " 

'  Yes;  you  don't  mind  my  having  told  her 
that,  do  you? " 

Granville  made  no  reply.  "  Did  she  want 
to  know — her  name?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  but  I  told  her  that  I  didn't  know — 
that  I  didn't  want  to  know,  and  I  don't.  What 
do  I  care  whom  you  loved  then,  dear  sweet- 
heart mine,  so  you  love  me  now! " 

Granville  drew  his  chair  close  to  hers;  he 
would  have  fain  said  aloud  the  many  things 
that  came  into  his  heart,  but  the  little  coterie 
were  not  many  steps  off,  and  among  a  dozen 
people  one  acute  of  hearing  and  keen  of  vision 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         227 

could  be  safely  counted  on,  so  contented  him- 
self with  imprisoning  her  hand  in  his,  and 
saying  in  sotto  voce  some  things  very  accept- 
able to  the  ears  for  whom  intended,  but  not 
necessary  to  repeat  to  others. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Alice,  "  I  told  her,  that 
you  said  this  way-off  rival  of  mine  was  the 
fancy  of  your  callow  youth 

"  Oh,  no,  Alice,  you  didn't  say  that!  " 

'  That  she  was  a  simple  little  dough- faced 
nobody " 

"  Surely,  Alice — surely  you  didn't  tell — her 
— that  I  said  that!" 

"Why,  would  you  care  so  much  if  I  did? 
But  I  know;  you  are  like  the  knights  of  old 
and  '  warriors  bold  '  that  they  sing  about ;  you 
would  not  have  yourself  represented  as  talk- 
ing in  that  style  of  any  fair  lady,  would  you? 
You  are  not  of  that  variety  of  genus  homo 
of  these  days  that  represent  themselves  as 
pursued." 


228        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

'  Well,  I  must  confess  I'm  not  a  '  warrior 
bold,'  though  I  can  say  of  my  lady  love  as  one 
of  them  sang  of  his,  '  that  none  with  her  com- 
pare.' But,  seriously,  there  is  a  great  deal, 
Alice,  in  the  way  one  has  been  reared,  and  I 
do  believe  if  my  father  had  heard  me  express 
myself  discourteously  concerning  a  lady  he 
would  have  locked  me  up  in  the  attic  till  I 
had  learned  better  manners  or — sense." 

"  A  fine  father  that,"  interrupted  Alice, 
"and  a  fine  son  he  reared!  No,"  she  con- 
tinued, "I'll  relieve  your  mind.  I  did  not  tell 
Aunt  Gertrude  that  you  said  anything  that 
you  did  not  say.  I  didn't  put  any  silly  words 
on  your  lips." 

"I'm  glad,  indeed,  for  I  have  better  use  for 
my  lips." 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder — the  coterie 
were  still  close,  and  the  lynx-eyed  friend  might 
still  be  on  guard,  so  only  lifted  her  finger  tips 
to  the  aforementioned  lips. 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         229 

For  all  Gertrude  had  so  much,  and  varied 
uses  for  her  time,  in  rounding  out  the  pleas- 
ures of  others,  there  was  much  of  it  left  for 
her  to  spend  alone,  while  the  friends  were  with 
one  another  in  their  family  circles,  or  otherwise 
engaged.  Much  of  this  solitude  she  passed 
on  the  beach,  sitting  apart,  or  lost  in  the 
throng,  enjoying  the  great  world  of  waters 
before  her,  and  drinking  in  its  sweet  but 
solemn  music.  Away  in  the  distance,  at  the 
farthest  reach  of  vision,  the  sky  bent  down 
and  bound  it  in  with  a  rim  of  mist,  but  over 
and  over,  close  upon  one  another,  from  out 
that  misty  border  the  foam-crested  waves 
came  journeying  shoreward,  at  first  bare  un- 
dulations, but,  gathering  strength  and  volume, 
came  rushing  in  like  white-crested  squadrons 
hastening  to  their  own  destruction.  Again, 
the  broad  expanse  before  her  was  a  calm,  its 
farthest  reach  a  field  of  deepest  blue,  with, 
nearer,  in  vivid  contrast,  broad  bands  of  green. 


230        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

But  in  storm  or  calm,  no  matter  which,  it  was 
always  grand.  With  eyes  fastened  on  this 
changing  glory,  and  ears  attuned  to  its  song, 
she  often  found  herself  repeating  in  unison 
with  its  cadence:  "  The  sea  is  his,  and  he 
made  it." 

"  How  small,"  she  mused,  "  in  the  presence 
of  all  this  vastness  and  grandeur,  seem  the 
malice,  hate,  and  feuds  of  life ;  how  like  guilty 
things  they  creep  away  and  hide!  How  into 
insignificance  fade  our  poor  ambitions,  whose 
only  aim  is  our  little  selves,  and  sharp  in  con- 
trast, come  out  those  things  that  know  no  death 
or  change — the  immortalities." 

To-day  the  surf  wras  high  and  the  bathers  a 
multitude,  reaching  far  up  and  down  the  coast, 
in  some  places  many,  in  others  few,  making 
as  it  were  a  broken  cordon  of  human  beings 
along  the  water's  edge. 

They  could  but  be  of  interest  to  Gertrude, 
who  watched  them  with  pleasure,  but  a  pleas- 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         231 

ure  mixed  with  solicitude,  so  like  cockle  shells 
they  seemed,  and  the  waters  so  strong. 

The  stout  of  limb  buffeted  the  waves  and 
rode  in,  victorious,  on  their  crests,  the  frail  and 
weak,  keeping  close  to  shore,  were  thrown  like 
shells  and  seaweed  on  the  sand.  There  were 
hallos,  sounds  of  merriment,  laughter  of  chil- 
dren, and  snatches  of  song,  but  through  and 
above  it  all  the  ocean's  ceaseless  roar. 

Not  far  from  Gertrude  was  a  party  of 
special  interest,  several  in  number,  both  men 
and  women,  and  all  good  swimmers.  To 
watch  these  was  an  unmixed  pleasure,  so  sure 
she  felt  of  their  safety — that  like  a  lot  of 
petrels  they  would  emerge  unharmed  from  any 
situation  however  perilous. 

What,  then,  was  her  surprise  to  hear  a  cry 
for  help  arise  from  their  midst;  to  see  com- 
motion among  them,  and  near-by  swimmers 
from  other  parties  hurrying  to  the  rescue. 
What  had  happened  she  could  not  tell,  but 


232        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

heard  the  cries,  saw  a  brief  struggle,  and  then 
two  men — each  with  one  arm  fighting  the 
waves,  and  in  the  other  bearing  something  be- 
tween them — coming  shoreward,  and  then  lay- 
ing on  the  sands  not  far  from  her  the  limp 
form  of  a  woman.  She  thought  but  a  moment 
— the  next  she  was  at  her  side.  The  eyes  were 
closed,  the  face  still  and  white,  save  where  the 
blood  was  flowing  from  a  ragged  cut  in  the 
cheek.  But  it  needed  one  glance  only  for 
Gertrude — through  the  pallor,  and  blood,  and 
clinging  hair  she  recognized  the  face  of  Helen 
Landray. 

The  women  of  the  party  seemed  dazed,  and 
cried  to  one  another  in  accents  of  horror, 
"Helen  Landray  is  dead!" 

"  No,  not  dead,"  said  Gertrude,  and  sitting 
down  on  the  sand  she  took  her  head  in  her  lap, 
and  folding  her  handkerchief  closely  together, 
pressed  it,  with  all  her  might  to  the  bleeding 
wound. 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         233 

"  Call  that  doctor — there,  where  that  child 
is  standing."  She  indicated  with  her  disen- 
gaged hand.  "  Call  him  by  name — Dr.  Bern- 
ley;  that  is  Dr.  Bernley,"  and  taking  from 
about  her  throat  a  little  scarf,  waved  it  in  the 
air,  as  best  she  could,  as  a  signal. 

Dr.  Bernley  saw  the  fluttering  scarf — even 
recognized  Gertrude,  and  in  a  few  seconds  was 
at  her  side,  leaning  over  the  helpless  woman. 

:<  This  is  good  work  you  have  done,  Mrs. 
Curtman,  the  immediate  staunching  of  this 
wound ;  but  hold  on  bravely  a  little  while  longer 
till  I  improvise  some  bandages ; "  and  taking 
his  own  handkerchief  and  tearing  it  into  strips 
knotted  them  together.  Other  handkerchiefs 
were  handed  him,  and  in  a  little  while  the 
wound  was  more  securely  staunched. 

"  She  is  not  dead,  but  stunned  and  uncon- 
scious," added  Dr.  Bernley,  after  a  hasty  ex- 
amination; "but  I  cannot  tell  the  extent  of 
her  injuries,  even  locate  them,  just  now.  They 


234         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

may  not  necessarily  be  serious.  How  did  it 
happen?  "  For  up  to  this  time  he  could  think 
of  nothing  other  than  a  wound  from  a  knife. 

Encouraged  by  the  assurance  that  she  was 
neither  dead  nor  dying,  her  companions  were 
calmed  sufficiently  to  give  what  explanation 
they  could  of  the  disaster.  It  seems  a  float- 
ing log,  borne  inward  by  an  approaching  wave 
unobserved  by  her,  in  fact,  by  them  all,  until 
too  late  to  warn  her,  struck  with  its  jagged 
edge  her  face. 

In  a  few  moments  the  ambulance  arrived; 
her  friends  lifted  her  into  it,  and  accompanied 
by  Dr.  Bernley  and  the  nurse,  she  was  driven 
to  the  hospital. 

When  Gertrude  reached  her  hotel  she 
found  not  only  Granville  and  Alice,  but 
Mrs.  Bernley,  too,  awaiting  her. 

"  We  were  getting  uneasy,  Aunt  Gertrude," 
said  Alice ;  "  we  were  beginning  to  think  the 
sea  serpent  had  swallowed  you." 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES        235 

"  Or  that  you  and  the  doctor  had  gone  off 
yachting  and  left  us,"  said  Mrs.  Bernley. 
"  But  you  are  looking  pale,  Gertrude,"  she 
suddenly  exclaimed.  "  And  here  are  some 
spots  of  blood  on  your  sleeve !  Something  has 
happened — tell  us.  Have  you  been  hurt?" 

Gertrude  would  gladly  have  kept  to  herself 
all  the  occurrences  of  the  morning,  but  she 
knew  that  Dr.  Bernley  would  naturally  relate 
them.  What  reason  had  he  not?  What  reason 
had  he  to  suppose  their  rehearsal  would  be  dis- 
tressing to  her?  But  she  was  determined  not 
to  give  the  name  of  the  wounded  woman,  hop- 
ing that  Dr.  Bernley  had  not  been  able  to 
obtain  it.  Anyway  she  would  withhold  it. 

;<  Tell  us  about  it,  Gertrude,"  said  Granville 
seriously;  "something  has  happened;  have 
you  been  hurt? " 

"  No,  I  have  not  been  hurt,"  she  answered, 
"  but  while  I  was  sitting  on  the  beach  one  of 
the  swimmers,  a  woman,  was  struck  by  a  float- 


236         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

ing  log  and  rendered-  unconscious.  She  was 
rescued  by  her  friends  and  brought  up  on  the 
sand.  But  her  face  was  cut,  and  the  wound 
was  bleeding  profusely.  I  was  near  and  ren- 
dered some  little  service — Dr.  Bernley  and  I," 
she  added,  turning  toward  Mrs.  Bernley. 

"Will  she  die?  "  asked  Alice. 

"  I  hope  not;  Dr.  Bernley  thinks  her  injuries 
are  not  necessarily  serious." 

"  Dr.  Bernley  certainly  knows,"  announced 
Mrs.  Bernley  with  wifely  loyalty  and  confi- 
dence. "What  did  he  say — give  us  his 
diagnosis?  " 

'  That  the  wound  was  disfiguring,  but  not 
dangerous." 

"  Who  is  she — did  you  learn  her  name,  and 
where  from?  "  asked  Alice. 

"  From  New  York,  I  heard." 

"And  her  name?" 

The  color  rose  to  Gertrude's  face,  but  she 
made  no  reply. 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         237 

"  I  must  go  to  my  room,  and  make  myself 
presentable  for  luncheon,"  she  said,  moving 
toward  the  hall. 

Before  she  reappeared  Dr.  Bernley  had 
joined  the  others  and  corroborated  Mrs.  Curt- 
man's  story.  The  wound  in  the  woman's  cheek 
would  leave  a  scar,  he  thought,  and  she  would 
be  lame  from  other  injuries  he  had  discovered 
on  the  more  thorough  examination  at  the  hos- 
pital. She  had  been  restored  to  conscious- 
ness. 

"  But  I  think  she  will  recover,"  he  added, 
"  though  never  to  be  the  beautiful  woman  she 
must  have  been  in  the  past." 

Collins  did  not  ask  her  name ;  he  had  rightly 
interpreted  Gertrude's  silence  and  heightened 
color.  It  was  Gertrude's  secret  and  he  would 
respect  it.  He  was  not  surprised,  for  he  had 
but  the  day  before  seen  Mrs.  Landray  and  her 
party  among  the  moving  throng  on  the  board- 
walk. 


238         OUT    OF   THE  ASHES 

But  Mrs.  Bernley  had  no  knowledge  of  all 
this,  and  continued  her  investigation. 

"  Did  you  learn  her  name?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  Mrs.  Landray— a  Mrs.  Helen 
Landray  of  New  York." 

Alice  was  startled,  but  caught,  before  utter- 
ing it,  the  exclamation  of  surprise  that  came 
to  her  lips.  She  glanced  furtively  at  Gran- 
ville,  but  he  was  looking  away  and  his  face  was 
impassive.  "  He  did  not  hear,"  she  said  to 
herself.  But  he"r  surmise  was  not  correct — he 
had  heard. 

"  Oh,  the  curiosity  of  you  women! "  laughed 
Dr.  Bernley.  "  I  charged  my  memory  with 
this  stranger's  name,  because  I  knew  you 
would  be  dying  to  have  it,  and  now,  after  I 
have  brought  and  delivered  it,  of  what  use  is 
the  knowledge?  Who  of  you  know,  or  ever 
heard  of,  Mrs.  Landray?  Mrs.  Helen  Land- 
ray  of  New  York? " 

For  several  days  following,  Gertrude  kept 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        239 

to  her  room.  She  was  not  well,  she  said;  and 
she  was  not.  There  was  a  feverish  throbbing 
in  her  breast,  a  confusion  of  noises  in  her  ears, 
and  mingled  with  the  ocean's  roar  a  cry  for 
help ;  again  and  again  she  saw  the  limp  form 
of  a  woman  borne  along  the  sand;  pallid  and 
bleeding,  and  turned  up  to  her,  as  she  lay  in 
her  arms,  the  face  of  the  woman  who  had  come 
between  her  and  her  husband. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

"  When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 
When  grief  grew  calm." 

"  GOOD-EV'N',  Brur  Jerre ;  walk  in.    Wharf's 
Didamy?" 

"  Heyr  she  iz." 

"Didn't  gee  you  at  fust,  Didamy;  Brur 
Jerry  fill  up  the  dore  so  with  his  fat  seff. 
Come  in  an'  rest  yer  hats.     You  all  ain't  bin 
roun'  heyr  f  er  long  time.     Whut  yer  bin  doin' 
with  yerselves? " 

"  Oh,  nuthin'  in  pertick'lar,"  answered 
Didama.  :<  I  ain't  bin  well.  I  wuz  rite 
porely  all  las'  week — had  a  tech  of  the 
rumatiz." 

"  Whut  yer  do  fer  it?  Ever  mix  whynine 
an'  lard  an'  rub  with  it?  They  say  it's  fust 
rate." 

240 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        241 

"No,  I  ain't  tried  that,  but  I  of'n  has 
rubbed  with  rem'dies.  But  I  b'leve  'bout  the 
bes'  thing  ter  do  is  to  keep  a-goin'  all  the 
time." 

"  Didamy  suttenly  do  b'leve  in  that,"  put  in 
Jerry.  "  She's  allers  spinnin'  street  yarn.  I 
wish  it  could  be  nit  an'  she'd  stay  at  home  an' 
nit  me  sum  socks  out  it.  I  ain't  got  nuthin' 
but  ris'bens  roun'  my  feet  ez  'tiz." 

"  Now,  liss'n  at  Jerre ;  he  kno'  whut  he  say 
ain't  so,"  objected  Didamy.  "  I'se  allers 
mendin'  his  close." 

"  Doan  you  worry,  Didamy;  I  ain't  payin* 
no  'tention  to  Brur  Jerre.  I  doan  b'leve  my 
own  lies  when  I  tells  'em,  an'  I  kno'  I  ain't 
gwine  b'leve  Brur  Jerre's." 

"  I  tell   Jerre  he  gettin'   moralized   down 

tharr   at   the   hotel.     So   many   diff'nt   kine 

uv  people   roun'   him,"   apologized  Didama. 

'  You'll  suttenly  git  moralized  with  whole  lot 

uv  diff'nt  kine  uv  people  roun'  you,  ef  you 


242         OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

doan  look  out,  passel  sayin'  one  thing,  an' 
nuther  passel  sayin'  nuther." 

"  Tharr  sho'  iz  different  kine  uv  people 
roun'  yer,"  said  Jerry,  "  an'  sum  of  'em  ain't 
got  no  manners  'tall.  Yistiday  Mr.  Skerce  sez 
to  me, c  Jerre,  you  an'  Miss'r  Cu'tmun  iz  grate 
frens,  ain't  you?  '  I  sez, '  Uv  course  we  iz;  I'se 
uv  the  same  fam'bly  with  his  wife.'  '  His 
wife?'  sez  he,  'he  ain't  got  no  wife — he's  a 
devosay*  '  I  dunno  whut  a  devosay  iz,'  I  sez 
— '  I  dunno  ez  I  ever  seen  one,  but  I  kno's  a 
thur'bred  when  I  sees  him,  an'  Miss'r  Cu't- 
mun's  a  thur'bred.' 

"  Say,  Lizerjane,"  he  continued,  "  wharr's 
C'lumbus?" 

"  I  dunno  wharr  C'lumbus  is,  Brur  Jerre, 
but  whut  you  wanter  see  C'lumbus  fur?  You 
an'  him  ez  jest  like  cat  an'  dog,  you  ain't 
t'gether  five  minnits  'fore  yer  hard  at  it, 
makin'  the  fur  fly!  " 

"  That's  a  f ac',  an'  I  ain't  askin'  for  C'lum- 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         243 

bus  kase  I  wanter  see  him — I'm  askin'  wharr 
he  iz  kase  I  doan  wanter  see  him." 

"Jest  liss'n  at  that!  Ain't  Brur  Jerre  a 
caushion?  askin'  fer  him  kase  he  doan  wanter 
see  him! " 

"  Yes,  I'm  'f raid  he'll  come  in.  How  you 
all  roun'  here  live  with  C'lumbus,  anyhow? 
It  makes  me  mad  jest  to  look  at  him;  he's  sich 
an  upstart." 

"  I  don't  have  no  trouble  with  C'lumbus," 
replied  Eliza  Jane.  "  When  he  gits  enti'ly 
above  hisself  I  jest  give  him  a  piece  my  mine. 
C'lumbus  ain't  a  mean  nigger,  Brur  Jerre; 
he  jest  hi-flutin'  an'  love  ter  hear  hisseff 
talk." 

'  That  whut  I  say  'bout  C'lumbus,"  agreed 
Didama. 

"  Brur  Jerre,  did  yer  kno'  we  gwine  ter  have 
a  weddin'  in  the  fam'bly?  "  asked  Eliza  Jane, 
making  a  sudden  change  of  topics. 

"  No;  who  gwine  ter  marry?  " 


244         OUT   OF    THE  ASHES 

"  Miss'er  Collins  an'  Miss  Alice  Farrell." 

"  Iz  Miss'er  Collins  gwine  ter  marry  Miss 
Alice?  Well,  well,  I  sho'  am  glad  to  hear 
that." 

"  Whut  yer  glad  fer?  Miss  Alice  is  putty 
miff  to  ketch  more  husbens  than  the  law  'lows. 
She  ain't  behol'n  ter  Miss'er  Collins  or  Miss'er 
Enybody-else  to  marry  her;  Miss  Alice  iz 
nearly  es  putty  es  Miss  Gertrue.  Talk  like  yer 
b'leeged  to  Miss'er  Collins  fer  marryin'  her!  I 
ain't;  an'  it's  the  fust  time  I  ever  hear  you  go 
back  on  yer  kin." 

*  You  doan  kno'  whut  I  mean,  Lizerjane. 
I  ain't  sayin'  but  Miss  Alice  couldn't  marry 
enybody,  but  I  didn't  kno'  that  Miss'er  Collins 
was  a-settin'  to  her.  Yo'  sho'ly  remem'er  how 
he  use  ter  cum  courtin'  Miss  Gertrue  when 
she  wuz  a  young  lady,  doan  you,  an'  how  the 
Boss  cut  him  out?  Well,  I  jest  'lowed  he'd 
cum  back  after  Miss  Gertrue  an'  they  might 
be  gwine  ter  marry." 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        245 

"  Miss  Gertrue  marry!  What  you  talkin' 
'bout,  nigger.  You  sho'ly  is  los'  yer  mine." 

"  Well,  ain't  she  got  a  devose?  " 

"  Devose  nuthin'.  Devose  doan  mean  mar- 
ryin'  agin,  leastwise  it  doan  with  Miss  Gertrue. 
Miss  Gertrue  wouldn't  marry  nairy  man  livin' 
'ceptin'  'twuz  the  same  one  over  agin.  I'm 
'shame  uv  you,  Brur  Jerre,  an'  I  hope  you'se 
shame  uv  yerseff !  " 

"  Well,"  began  Jerry  apologetically,  "  I 
kno'  lots  uv  folks  duz  marry  agin,  an'  me 
an'  the  Boss  got  skerred  'bout  it." 

"  You  an'  Miss'er  Cu'tmun? " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  doan  mean  he  say  eny thing 
'bout  it,  but  I  jest  keep  a-drappin'  a  word  here 
an'  nother  tharr — you  kno'  how  we  niggers  can 
carry  news  when  we  wants  ter.  I  thowt  f er 
sutten,  frum  the  way  Miss'er  Collins  wuz 
comin'  roun'  here  that  tharr  wuz  a  weddin' 
hachin',  but  I  never  onct  thowt  'bout  Miss 
Alice.  I  couldn't  get  use  ter  thinkin'  that  chile 


246         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

wuz  grow'd  up  yit.  It  seems  like  'twuz  jist 
yistiday  she  wuz  runnin'  'roun'  in  short  close. 
So,  ez  I  say,  I  thowt  it  wuz  Miss  Gertrue  he 
wuz  after,  an'  I  sez  to  myself,  '  Jerre,  you 
outter  tell  the  Boss  'bout  this,  so  he  won't  go 
all  to  pieces  when  it  dose  cum  'bout.'  So  I  jest 
kep'  sinuatin'  and  sinuatin'." 

"An'  Miss'er  Cu'tmun  b'leve  you?  He  los' 
his  mine,  too? " 

"  I  dunno  'bout  that,  fer  he  didn't  say  nuth- 
in';  in  fac'  he  never  let  on  like  he's  lisnin'  to 
whut  I  wuz  sayin'.  But  he  wuz.  Yes,  an' 
b'leve  it,  too,  fer  he  look  so  mis'able  all  the 
nex'  day,  an'  fer  a  whole  passel  er  days  after 
I  tell  him  Miss'er  Collins  bin  roun'  heyr." 

;<  Well,  you  kin  jest  carre  yer  black  seff 
roun'  tharr  an'  tell  him  better.  Fust  thing  I 
ever  kno'  you  to  do  like  a  nigger,  Brur  Jerre, 
to  go  mispresent  Miss  Gertrue." 

"  I  b'leve  you!  "  ejaculated  Didama. 

"  Say,  Lizerjane,"  and  here  Jerry  drew  his 


OUT   OF   THE   ASHES         247 

chair  nearer  and  lowered  his  voice,  "  did  you 
ever  tell  Miss  Gertrue  whut  I  tole  you  'bout 
that  other  'oman." 

"What  other  'oman?" 

"  That  night  I  wuz  in  the  hall  eaves- 
drappin'." 

"  Now,  tharr  'tis,  Brur  Jerre,  you  ain't  sat'- 
fied  mispresentin'  Miss  Gertrue;  you  gone 
mispresent  yerseff ,  you  wuzn't  eavesdrappin', 
I  tole  you  that  onct  bef  o'." 

"  No,  whut  I  thinkin'  'bout?  I  mean  that 
nite  I  staid  in  the  hall  while  she  wuz  talkin' 
to  the  Boss,  'specially  to  hear  whut  she  say." 

"You  bet  I  tole  her!  Didn't  I  tell  you 
Lizerjane  would  git  tharr?  I  jest  said  little 
sumthin'  one  day  ter  see  how  she  take  it,  an' 
she  didn't  say  nuthin',  an'  so  the  nex'  day  I 
out  with  it  all." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  how  raw  he  talk  ter  her, 
an*  treat  her  like  she  wuz  jest  whut  she  wuz. 
Did  you  tell  her  all  I  sed?  " 


248         OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

"  I  most  suttenly  did." 

"Whutshesay?" 

"  She  never  say  nuthin'.  I  wuz  wukin' 
'way  at  sumthin'  while  I  wuz  talkin',  an'  I 
hadn't  the  face  to  look  at  her,  but  when  I  got 
to  the  dore  an'  turn  roun'  an'  seen  her,  she 
look  es  white  es  a  sheet.  I  feel  sorry  then  I 
tole  her." 

Jerry  looked  away  from  the  little  group  a 
few  minutes. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said,  turning  again  toward 
them  and  heaving  a  good,  honest  sigh, 
"  it  won't  make  much  differ 'nee  one  way 
or  t'other  long,  fer  the  Boss  is  gwine  ter 
die." 

"Die!  Miss'er  Cu'tman  gwine  ter  die! 
Whut  you  mean,  Jerre?  " 

"  I  mean  jest  whut  I  say." 

"  How  cum  you  never  say  nuthin'  'bout  it 
to  me,  Jerre? "  asked  Didama  in  an  injured 
tone  of  voice. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        249 

'Whut  good  would  it  V  done,  Didamy; 
you  ain't  no  doctor." 

"  I  kno'  I  ain't,  but  I  think  a  man  orter  tell 
his  wife  ev'rything,  specially  when  he  knows 
enybody's  gwine  ter  die.  I  allus  tells  you  when 
I  kno'  enybody  es  gwine  ter  die." 

"  I'm  at  the  fust  uv  it  myself,"  said  Eliza 
Jane.  "  I  never  kno'd  he  wuz  sick." 

"  He  doan  know  it  hisseff ,  leastwise  he  don't 
say  so,  an'  tries  to  step  'long  like  he  allus  did ; 
but  he  ain't  the  same  man ;  sumthin'  the  matter 
with  him — he's  thin  es  a  rail.  Yes,  he's  gwine 
ter  die,  an'  I  mus'  tell  him  so." 

'  Whut  matter  with  you,  nigger?  You 
doan  mean  you  gwine  ter  tell  Miss'er  Cu'tman 
he's  gwine  ter  die ! " 

'  Well,  not  in  so  many  wuds,  but  I'll  drap 
'sinuations  one  day  with  nuther  till  he  see  whut 
I  mean." 

'  Yes,  but  whut  you  think  doan  allus  come 
to  pass ;  you  thowt  Miss  Gertrue  wuz  gwine  ter 


250         OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

marry.  You  doan  kno'  no  more'n  some  these 
we'ther  men  whut  say  it's  gwine  ter  be  warm 
an'  you  kin  go  skeetin',  an'  when  they  sez  it 
gwine  be  cold  you  kin  brile  an  egg  in  the  sun. 
I'm  gret  mine  to  call  you  a  w'ether  bu'ro! " 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

"  Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears 
but  bitter  fruit?  " 

THE  knowledge  that  Gertrude  was  not  to 
marry  Collins  was  a  relief  inexpressible  to 
Morrison,  yet  relief  only,  not  a  cure.  The 
sadness  and  loneliness  of  his  life  was  the  same, 
and  his  self-condemnation  in  no  wise  lessened. 
He  began  again  the  task  he  had  assigned 
himself  the  first  days  of  their  separation;  he 
would  not  think  of  her  at  all.  He  would  not 
stupefy  his  brain  with  drugs  or  drown  his 
memories  in  drink.  His  little  experience  in 
the  latter  should  suffice  him  forever,  but  he 
would  fill  his  days  so  full  of  work  that  there 
would  be  no  time  left  for  musings;  and  in  his 
leisure,  by  the  sheer  might  of  his  will,  he  would 
banish  her  from  his  thoughts — again  reverting 
to  the  power  of  will  that  was  his. 

251 


252         OUT   OF   THE   ASHES 

But  his  scheming  came  to  nothingness;  his 
failure  was  as  complete  as  it  had  been  before, 
and  he  found  himself,  after  the  merest  trial 
of  his  logic,  helplessly  yielding,  as  he  had  done 
all  these  years  they  had  been  apart,  to  thinking 
and  dreaming  of  her,  yea,  planning  ways  to 
command  more  time  in  which  to  dream  of  her ! 
Any  little  rumor  that  came  to  his  ears  regard- 
ing her,  or  mention  of  her  name,  any  glimpse 
he  caught  of  her  on  the  street,  was  dwelt  upon 
with  a  sad  pleasure,  and  often  made  the  sub- 
ject of  lengthy  entries  in  his  diary,  or  entries, 
though  short,  full  of  meaning,  with  much  read- 
ing between  the  lines;  and  any  news  directly 
from  her,  though  not  intended  for  his  ears, 
was  given  most  grateful  welcome. 

Mr.  Pindle,  who  had  charge  of  the  office 
floor  at  the  house  of  Curtman  &  Co.,  hesitated 
one  day  when  a  man  giving  his  name  as  Henry; 
Burchell  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
asking  an  interview  with  Mr.  Curtman.  Mr. 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         253 

Burchell  was  not  in  rags,  but  his  clothes,  old 
and  worn,  betrayed  such  intimate  relations 
with  poverty,  that  Mr.  Pindle  concluded  his 
business  with  the  president  was  of  more  im- 
portance to  Mr.  Burchell  than  to  the  president, 
and,  had  he  followed  his  own  judgment,  would 
have  denied  the  interview.  But  it  was  Mr. 
Curtman's  order — these  days — that  everybody 
asking  an  audience  of  him  should  have  it;  and 
so  Mr.  Burchell  was  shown  into  his  writing 
room. 

The  man  had  an  apologetic,  embarrassed 
manner,  but  a  straightforward  look  in  his  eyes. 
Morrison  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  but  turned  as 
he  entered. 

:<  This  is  Mr.  Curtman?  My  name  is 
Burchell." 

:<  Walk  in,  Mr.  Burchell,"  replied  Morrison. 
"  Be  seated,"  he  continued,  motioning  toward 
a  chair. 

"  No,  sir ;  I  won't  take  up  your  time.    I've 


254         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

just  come  for  work.  I'm  a  poor  man,  an' 
I  need  help,  but  I  want  to  earn  it  with 
work." 

:<  That  is  commendable,"  Morrison  replied. 

"  Here  is  a  note  from  your  wife." 

"  My  wife !  Did  you  say  from  my  wife?  " 
Morrison  turned  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  him 
intently. 

Mr.  Burchell  felt  a  while  in  his  pocket. 
"  Here  it  is,"  he  said  at  length. 

Morrison  caught  it  from  his  hand,  and  in  a 
moment  was  devouring  its  contents.  Were 
his  eyes  deceiving  him ! 

"  Dear  Morrison,"  it  ran,  "  this  will  be 
handed  you  by  Mr.  Burchell,  Mrs.  Turner's 
brother.  He's  in  need,  and  out  of  employ- 
ment. I  know  you  will  help  him.  I'll  pay 
you  with  a  thousand  kisses. 

"  Ever  with  love,  your  wife, 

"  Gertrude." 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         255 

There  came  to  Morrison's  face  more  than 
a  smile,  something  deeper  than  joy — the  look 
of  the  man  to  whom  a  pardon  is  brought  while 
working  away  behind  prison  walls  at  a  life- 
time sentence! 

He  arose.  "When  I  come  back,"  he  said, 
turning  toward  the  door. 

"  Wait,  Mr.  Curtman,"  called  Mr.  Burchell, 
apprehending  his  mistake,  "that  ain't  a  new 
note — I've  had  it  for  years." 

"  For  years ! "  exclaimed  Morrison,  the  light 
dying  out  of  his  eyes.  '  What  do  you  mean? 
It  is  from  my  wife;  I  know  her  writing." 

'  Yes,  I  know,  but  she  wrote  it  long  ago— 
before  the — partin'." 

"  Why  did  you  bring  it  at  all?  " 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  man,  reaching  out  his 
hand  for  the  letter.  "  I  was  af eared  it  wasn't 
the  right  thing  to  do — but— 

"  No,  I  will  keep  it ;  it  is  mine,"  said  Curt- 
man, tightening  his  hold  on  it — "it  was 


256        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

•written  to  me.  Why  did  you  not  bring  it 
sooner? " 

Here  was  indeed  a  dilemma  for  Mr.  Bur- 
chell.  Curtman  had  in  one  breath  asked  him 
why  he  had  brought  the  note  at  all,  in  the  next, 
why  he  had  not  brought  it  sooner! 

He  began  an  explanation,  but  stopped  and 
waited  patiently  until  he  had  Curtman's  ear, 
for  Curtman  had  again  seated  himself,  and 
with  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  note  before  him 
was  reading  it  over  slowly  word  by  word. 
This  he  did  twice  before  turning  to  its  bearer. 

"  How  did  you  come  by  this,  Mr.  Bur- 
chell?"  he  asked  at  length.  "How  came  she 
to  give  it  to  you? — when?  " 

"  It  was  'bout  the  time  the  Barber  Shoe 
Factory  closed  down,  an'  I  was  out  o'  work. 
My  sister,  Mrs.  Turner,  was  doin'  odd  jobs 
for  Mrs.  Curtman,  an'  she  said  she  had  a  lot 
o'  feelin'  for  the  poor  an'  would  get  you  to 
help  me.  You  see,  it  was  afore  you  an'  she — 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         257 

had — trouble.  An'  so  I  went  to  her  home  an' 
stated  my  case,  an'  she  says,  '  Certainly,  Mr. 
Burchell ;  I  know  Mr.  Curtman  will  help  you,' 
an'  with  that  she  sets  down  an*  writes  you  this 
note.  But  when  I  got  back  home  that  day  I 
foun'  that  Mr.  Scott,  who  use  to  be  foreman 
at  the  Barber  Shoe  Company,  had  gone  into 
another  bis'ness,  an'  had  sent  for  me  to  come 
get  a  place,  which  I  did.  An'  that  place  lasted 
till  two  months  ago.  So  I  jest  puts  away  this 
note,  an'  last  night  my  wife,  she  sez  to  me,  *  If 
I  was  you,  I'd  take  that  'round  to  Mr.  Curt- 
man, an'  see  ef  he  wouldn't  pay  'tention  to  it 
yit  an'  help  you.  Maybe  he  will;  an'  eny  way 
it  won't  hurt.' " 

"  I'm  glad  you  brought  it  to  me,  Mr.  Bur- 
chell, and  I  shall  certainly  help  you." 

"  Thank  you.  I'm  a  thousand  times 
obleeged  to  you.  It  goes  mighty  hard  with  a 
poor  man  when  he  is  out  o'  a  job.  But  your 
wife — I  don't  mean  your  wife,  of  course;  I 


258         OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

mean,  Mrs.  Curtman — she  has  been  that  kind 
to  me !  It  makes  me  feel  like  laughin'  all  over 
when  I  talk  'bout  it.  Mrs.  Curtman  certainly 
has  done  a  good  part  by  me  an'  my  poor  little 
boy  with  the  spine  disease;  it  looks  like  she 
can't  do  enuff  for  him.  She's  goin'  to  take 
him  to  the  hospital  an'  pay  all  the  bills,  doc- 
tors' bills  ah'  everything.  I  wanted  to  name 
him  for  her,  but  it  wouldn't  do  to  call  him  Ger- 
trude, him  bein'  a  boy " 

"And  so  you  gave  him — my  name? " 
'  Yes,  but  he  ain't  name  for  you — he's  name 
for  her.  I'll  tell  you  how  'twuz:  the  boy  had 
got  to  be  four  or  five  year  old  an'  we  had  never 
called  him  any  name  more'n  Bud.  An'  I  sez 
to  Mrs.  Curtman,  '  I'm  goin'  to  name  this  boy 
for  you,'  an'  she  laugh  an'  say,  '  You  goin'  to 
call  him  Gertrude  ' !  "  I  didn't  know  what  to 
say  then.  But  she  help  me  out ;  she  sez,  '  Call 
him  Curtman — that  is  my  name.'  An'  she 
take  his  pore  little  ban'  in  her'n  an'  pat  his 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         259 

curly  head  an'  say,  '  Little  Curtman  shan't 
want  for  nuthin'  as  long  as  he  live.'  An*  the 
boy  smile  like  his  back  didn't  hurt  him  no 
more " 

Mr.  Burchell  paused  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  After  he  had  wiped  his  eyes  on  his 
coat  sleeve  he  began  again:  "Yes " 

"  Nor  as  long  as  I  live  shall  he  want,"  in- 
terrupted Morrison.  "  Go  to  Stapleton,"  he 
continued,  turning  to  Mr.  Burchell;  "he  has 
charge  of  our  storerooms.  Tell  him  that  I  sent 
you  to  him  to  be  given  work,  if  he  has  it,  and  if 
he  hasn't  it,  to  make  work  for  you.  You  tell 
him  this  now,  and  later  I  will  see  him  myself 
concerning  it." 

That  night  Morrison  sat  long  before  re- 
tiring, with  the  note  open  in  his  hand,  reading 
again  and  again  the  closing  words,  "  Ever  with 
love,  your  wife,  Gertrude." 

He  made  several  entries  in  his  diary,  but 
erased  them  of  which  a  word  here  and  there 


260        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

remaining,  betrayed  the  trend  of  his  thoughts. 
But  one  was  left  in  its  entirety,  a  verse  to 
which  he  added  no  comment  of  his  own. 

"  Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, 
O,  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

The  same  night  Gertrude  sat  penning  a  let- 
ter of  sympathy  to  a  friend  in  the  midst  of  a 
fresh  grief,  who  had  before  gone  through 
many  and  deep  distresses: 

"  It  may  be  given  us  to  know  even  in  this 
life,"  it  ran,  "  what  good  our  sorrows  have 
wrought  in,  and  for  us,  but  whether  or  not  this 
come  to  pass,  we  can  rest  assured  our  'heavenly 
Father '  sends,  or  allows,  none  but  those  that 
accomplish  some  good  end.  Moreover,  it  has 
been  said  if  we  but  properly  bore  our  crosses, 
they  would  be  no  more  in  our  way,  or  a  hin- 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        261 

drance,  than  sails  to  a  ship — or  wings  to  a  bird. 
But  no  matter  which,  joy  or  grief,  it  will  all 
be  over  soon,  and  it  is  only  our  concern  to  do 
well  while  here  the  work  that  has  been  put  in 
our  hands.  I  close,  dear  friend,  quoting  from 
Brooke  a  passage  of  strength  and  beauty  that 
will  doubtless  appeal  to  you  as  it  has  appealed 
to  me,  nor  will  you  likely  overlook,  though  it 
maybe  but  a  minor  strain  in  the  song,  '  When 
all  is  over  here  ' ! 

"  '  Go  forth  to  meet  the  solemnities  and  to 
conquer  the  trials  of  existence,  believing  in  a 
Shepherd  of  your  souls.  Then  faith  in  Him 
will  support  you  in  duty  .  .  .  till  at  last, 
when  all  is  over  here,  and  the  noise  and  strife 
of  the  earthly  battle  fades  upon  your  dying 
ear,  and  you  hear,  instead  thereof,  the  deep 
and  musical  sound  of  the  ocean  of  eternity, 
and  see  the  light  of  heaven  shining  on  its 
waters  still  and  fair  in  their  radiant  rest,  your 
faith  will  raise  the  song  of  conquest,  and  in  its 


262         OUT   OF    THE   ASHES 

retrospect  of  the  life  which  has  ended  and  its 
forward  glance  upon  the  life  to  come,  take  up 
the  poetic  inspiration  of  the  Hebrew  king, 
"  Surely,  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me 
all  the  days  of  my  life;  and  I  will  dwell  in 
the  house  of  the  Lord  forever  " ! '  " 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"Out  of  the  past  remembered  eyes 

Pursue  and  hold  me  fast; 
Their  dark  pure  splendor  never  dies 
Out  of  the  past." 

»  •  •  •  • 

"  Would  the  serene, 
Sweet  face  of  Nature  steal  between 
This  grief  and  me,  to  dull  its  pain?  " 

THE  business  of  the  house  about  this  time  re- 
quired the  presence  of  someone  a  while  in 
Central  America.  Curtman  saw  this;  more- 
over, knew  that  he  was  the  man  for  the 
journey,  and  went.  His  health  had  been  so 
poor  of  late  that  he  did  not  fight  against  this 
absence,  hoping  for  good  results  from  the 
balmy  air  and  Caribbean  breezes.  He  had  lost 
many  pounds  of  his  usual  weight,  and  from 
an  athlete  in  strength,  had  come  to  be  some- 
times of  uncertain  gait  from  sheer  exhaustion. 

263 


264         OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

The  business  complications  he  found,  on 
reaching  Costa  Rica,  were  not  difficult  of  ad- 
justment. Morrison  seemed  gifted  with  the 
adjusting  ability.  Whether  his  practice  came 
from  the  best  of  motives,  irrespective  of  re- 
sults, or  because  he  noted  that  good  results 
always  followed  the  practice,  he  was  uniformly 
liberal  in  his  contracts.  He  always  had  the 
best  labor  procurable  and  paid  for  it  better 
price  than  was  elsewhere  paid.  And  there  was 
not  a  man  in  his  employ  who  did  not  know  that 
the  prosperity  of  the  company  was  a  guaran- 
tee of  his  own,  that  he  was  identified  with  the 
enterprise,  a  part  of  the  whole,  and  that  in 
putting  forth  his  best  efforts  to  achieve  suc- 
cess for  the  company,  he  was  doing  his  best 
work  for  himself. 

Morrison,  on  looking  into  the  trouble  on 
reaching  Costa  Rica,  saw  at  a  glance  its  root, 
and  in  a  little  while  the  disputes  were  settled 
to  the  satisfaction  of  all  concerned;  not  only 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         265 

this,  but  improvements  of  various  kinds  were 
made  and  the  business  was  broadened  and 
made  more  secure  than  it  had  ever  been. 

How  in  the  good  old  days  he  would  have 
hastened  to  Gertrude  to  tell  her  of  this  just 
and  amicable  settlement,  and  how  pleased 
would  she  have  been  with  the  happy  ending, 
brought  about  by  peaceful  methods — methods 
so  accordant  with  the  principles  by  which  she 
lived! 

Indeed,  Morrison's  nature  seemed  to  be  get- 
ting more  in  sympathy  with  peaceful  methods. 
Somehow,  of  late  he  had  been  thinking  more 
of  the  relative  values  of  the  here,  and  the  here- 
after, of,  "  the  things  which  are  seen,"  and 
"  the  things  which  are  not  seen."  He  was  ceas- 
ing to  ignore,  as  he  had  so  many  years  ignored, 
the  ethics  taught  him  at  his  mother's  knee ;  the 
perfunctory  was  falling  off  from  duty,  and 
the  beauty  of  the  duties  was  itself  becoming 
more  apparent.  He  had  a  kindly  heart — good 


266         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

soil  for  what  was  long  ago  planted  in  it,  yet  to 
grow  and  bear  fruit. 

It  is  given  to  mortal  man  to  endure  both 
pain  and  sorrow,  but  not  yet  to  understand 
their  ministry ;  but  a  ministry  they  surely  have, 
and  that  ministry  is  good.  Pain  is  often  but 
the  prelude  of  peace,  and  sorrow  of  serenity. 

"  Say  not  'Twas  all  in  vain. 
The  anguish,  and  the  darkness,  and  the  strife, 
Love  thrown  upon  the  waters,  comes  again, 
In  quenchless  yearning  for  a  nobler  life." 

But  the  warm  atmosphere  and  salt  air  did 
not  prove  as  medicinal  as  Curtman  had  hoped, 
and  the  ailment — whatever  it  was — that  he 
carried  away  with  him  he  brought  back,  little, 
if  at  all,  lessened.  But  he  made  no  moan;  as 
Jerry  expressed  it,  he  tried  to  step  along  as 
he  always  had,  and  he  continued  unbroken 
his  work-a-day  life,  with  as  much  of  his  old- 
time  energy  as  he  could  summon.  There  was 
a  great  deal  of  work  at  the  house  that  required 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         267 

his  personal  attention;  for  though  he  had  in 
drill  a  young  man  of  the  firm,  preparing  him 
for  his  substitute  in  emergencies,  the  young 
man  was  at  present  only  able  to  assist  him,  not 
to  carry  his  whole  burden. 

"  You  have  attended  to  this  end  of  the  line 
admirably,  Preston,"  he  said  to  this  assistant, 
after  looking  over  the  entries  and  correspond- 
ence of  the  weeks  he  had  been  absent ;  "  it 
seems  as  if  your  shoulders  were  growing  broad 
for  a  burden  about  to  be  laid  on  them.  After 
a  little  more  drilling,  I  believe  you  can  take 
my  place  altogether  if  I  go  off  on  a  longer 
journey." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  Mr.  Curtman ;  I 
hardly  think  I  could.  But  you  are  not  going 
off  on  another  journey,  are  you?  " 

Morrison,  when  he  spoke,  had  in  mind  the 
long  journey  from  which  no  traveler  returns; 
but,  saving  a  significant  smile  which  Preston 
understood,  made  no  further  explanation.  He 


268        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

would  not  be  a  second  Mr.  Weston,  he  said  to 
himself,  recalling  the  elder  partner  of  the  firm 
in  which  he  had  been  employed  in  his  youth, 
who  was  always  making  promises,  in  a  mys- 
terious way,  of  taking  his  departure,  which 
promises  he  had  never  kept,  and  was  still  liv- 
ing along,  at  work  at  that,  a  hearty,  hale  octo- 
genarian. 

"  It  is  well,"  kept  on  Curtman,  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  way,  "  for  one  to  keep  his  business 
always  in  ship-shape,  ready  for  any  emer- 
gency. I  have  come  to  think  the  emergency  of 
life  is  quite  as  important  as  the  emergency  of 
death.  ...  I  detest  slipshod  methods,  if 
indeed,  method  can  be  thought  of  at  all  in  con- 
nection with  slipshod.  I  believe  the  best  re- 
sults can  be  obtained  by  adopting,  and  rigidly 
adhering  to  system — of  course  a  good  system. 
My  beau  ideal  of  a  business  was  one  I  saw 
once  so  conducted,  and  with  only  one  man  at 
its  head. 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        269 

"  Now,  I  have  greatly  enjoyed  owning  the 
lion's  share  of  this  business,  not  so  much  on 
account  of  the  lion's  share  of  the  dividends  I 
received  as  the  right  it  insured  me  to  control 
it — to  run  it  as  I  pleased. 

"  But  my  views  are  somewhat  modified  now, 
I  have  come  to  set  more  value  on  an  assistant, 
a  lieutenant  I  will  call  him,  a  man  who  under- 
stands and  is  in  accord  with  the  chief's  views. 
Why,"  continued  Morrison,  and  not  lowering 
his  voice  either,  "  if  I  had  listened  to  these  nar- 
row-minded malcontents,  who  happily  own 
only  a  few  shares  of  stock,  there's  no  telling 
when,  or  how,  the  trouble  in  Costa  Rica  would 
have  been  settled.  I  did  not  have  to  take  their 
advice  and  I  did  not  take  it.  But  it  is  well,  as 
I  said,  for  the  president  of  a  business  which 
he  practically  owns,  to  have  associated  with  him 
an  assistant,  (now  I  don't  mean  a  vice-presi- 
dent, for  I  have  more  of  them  now  than  I 
need) ,  in  accord  with  his  views,  who  can  run  it 


270         OUT    OF    THE  ASHES 

on  in  the  same  groove  should  the  president  lay 
off  for  a  rest,  go  abroad,  or  die. 

"  Now,  to  wind  up  my  address,  I  will  say  to 
you,  that  I  want  you  for  this  office.  I  have 
been  observant  of  your  qualifications,  and  be- 
lieve you  are  just  the  man  I  need.  Your  gen- 
erous views  have  made  you  sometimes  unpopu- 
lar with  the  directors,  I  know,  but  not  with 


me." 


"  I  certainly  feel  flattered,  Mr.  Curtman," 
Mr.  Preston  replied,  "  and  you  can  rest  as- 
sured I  am  grateful.  I  don't  know  how  such 
a  practical  compliment  as  this  will  suit  the 
others,  but  what  you  say  goes,  both  I  and  they 
know  that.  But  if  you  give  me  this  promotion, 
I  shall  try  to  do,  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  my 
duty  by  both  you  and  them." 

Preston  kept  his  word  and  proved  a  most 
useful  and  valuable  assistant,  and  surely  his 
appointment  was  most  opportune. 

The  late  spring,  with  its  chilly  breezes,  sud- 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        271 

denly  turned  into  an  early  and  warm  summer, 
and  with  the  heat  of  this  early  summer  came 
weariness  and  lassitude  to  those  who,  from 
either  age  or  sickness,  were  no  longer  stout  in 
body  and  strong  of  limb. 

When  Morrison  returned  to  the  city,  he  re- 
turned also  to  his  nightly  reveries  at  the  win- 
dow, from  which  he  could  see  across  the  inter- 
vening gloom  the  glow  of  Gertrude's  lamp, 
and  it  was  well  for  him,  indeed,  that  it  was 
always  lighted,  for  he  was  in  no  condition 
now  to  walk  the  weary  squares  between  to 
learn  the  meaning  of  an  absence  from  its 
place. 

His  musings  now  were  sweeter  to  him  than 
ever ;  he  could  not  explain  it,  but  somehow  they 
had  lost  the  bitterness  that  had  heretofore 
enwrapped  them.  He  had  himself  lost 
Gertrude;  he  sadly  accepted  this,  but  had 
the  happiness  of  knowing  she  would  never  be 

another's. 

1 


272        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

As  he  sat  one  night  at  the  window,  in  a 
calmer,  sweeter  meditation  than  any  he  had 
heretofore  known,  the  lamp  in  the  distance 
continually  swam  and  disappeared  before  him; 
he  wiped  his  eyes;  it  came  back  with  its  soft, 
pure  rays,  only  to  disappear  again.  Why  re- 
sist?— they  were  a  relief,  these  tears,  and  so 
he  let  them  have  their  way:  "  The  ice-bound 
clod  is  broken." 

It  was  a  balmy  night  and  the  windows  were 
open.  He  could  hear  distinctly  the  music  in 
the  near-by  church,  sometimes  the  voice  of  the 
minister.  The  organ's  tones  had  never  seemed 
so  human  before — a  cry  of  penitence;  a  shout 
of  triumph ;  and  a  sigh  of  peace.  After  a  few 
chords  of  prelude,  there  came  to  his  ears,  like 
the  notes  of  a  heavenward  soaring  lark,  the 
song  of  a  clear,  sweet  contralto: 


Call  and  the  Saviour  will  hear  thee, 
He  on  his  bosom  will  bear  thee, 
Thou  who  art  weary  of  sin." 

\ 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        273 

The  song  was  over.  There  was  a  silence; 
and  then  he  heard  the  minister  repeating  the 
words  of  Christ: 

"  And  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up  from  the  earth, 
will  draw  all  men  unto  me." 

Curtman  closed  his  eyes  and  thought,  in 
calm  content,  thoughts  of  kindliness  and 
peace  to  all  mankind.  He  must  have  slept,  too, 
for  he  felt  on  his  brow  "  the  touch  of  that 
vanished  hand,  and  heard  once  more  the  sound 
of  that  voice  he  had  stilled." 

He  was  wakened  by  some  noise  in  the  hall. 
It  was  Jerry,  with  his  low,  continuous  hum, 
going  about  his  last  duties  for  the  night;  it 
must  be  later  than  he  had  thought.  He  es- 
sayed rising,  to  go  to  his  room,  but  found  he 
must  have  assistance. 

"  Jerry,"  he  said,  when  his  humble  friend  in 
the  course  of  his  rounds  reached  him,  "  you 
will  have  to  help  me ;  I  am  ill." 

"Yes,  Boss,  you  suttenly  is  sick;  you'se  es 


274        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

white  es  a  sheet.  Let  me  call  Mr.  Stanton  or 
the  hedd  cluck " 

"  No.  Do  as  I  tell  you,  Jerry.  I  want  no 
scene,  or  commotion  around  me.  You  can  do 
all  I  want,  and  I  know  you  are  willing.  Call 
a  carriage  and  take  me  to  the  hospital — the 
hospital  nearest  my  old  home.  You  under- 
stand? " 

"  Yes,  Boss;  an'  I  kin  take  jest  as  good  kerr 
uv  you  es  eny  uv  the  res'  uv  'em,  an'  am  will- 
in'er  than  enybody,  but  I  jest  tho't  they  might 
blame  me  ef  I  didn't  tell  'em — they;  white  an* 
me  black." 

Jerry  did  not  overrate  his  willingness  to 
take  care  of  his  white  friend ;  had  all  the  guests 
in  the  hotel  been  apprised  of  Curtman's  ill- 
ness— and  Curtman  was  popular  with  them — 
this  sable  servitor  would  still  have  been  abreast 
in  the  amount  and  genuineness  of  his  sym- 
pathy. 

In  a  little  while  the  carriage  had  arrived, 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES         275 

and  Jerry,  with  a  tact  and  management  that 
would  have  elicited  Morrison's  admiration,  if 
he  had  been  well  enough  to  observe,  was  en- 
gineering his  removal  to  the  hospital. 


CHAPTER  XX 


" There  is  a  love  beside 

Whose  strength  the  passion  of  the  ocean  wide 
Is  like  the  ripples  whispering  in  blue  bays: 
A  love  beside  whose  strength  death's  fingers  wild 
Are  weak  as  pink  soft  fingers  of  a  child." 

"  For  love  is  purer  than  dew  drops  are, 
The  winds  go  never  so  wide  and  far." 

WHEN  they  reached  the  institution,  Jerry  left 
Morrison  in  the  carriage  while  he  went  in — 
an  avant  coureur — to  arrange  for  his  recep- 
tion. Once  in  the  office,  he  went  about  his 
work  in  no  uncertain,  or  half-hearted  way.  He 
announced  to  the  superintendent  and  those 
standing  about  him,  that  Mr.  Morrison  Curt- 
man  was  ill  in  a  carriage  without,  in  quest  of 
such  home  and  attention  as  they  could  give, 
informing  them  at  the  same  time  that  Mr. 
Curtman  was  the  best  man  in  the  city,  an  aris- 

276 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        277 

tocrat  of  the  highest  rank — a  high  stepper,  he 
called  him — and  as  for  money,  he  had  it  by 
the  bankfuls. 

Whether  or  not  this  representation  of  the 
ill  gentleman  at  the  door,  would  have  met  with 
a  warm,  and  immediate  response  from  Jerry's 
introduction  alone,  cannot  be  stated,  as  the 
superintendent  knew  Mr.  Curtman  personally, 
and  was  glad  that  the  best  room  in  the  house 
was  vacant  and  ready  for  his  occupancy.  He 
went  down  himself  to  the  carriage  to  supple- 
ment, if  necessary,  Jerry's  strength  in  getting 
him  to  his  room. 

'  This  suttenly  do  look  puer  an'  clean  in 
heyr,"  said  Jerry,  surveying  in  turn  the  spot- 
less bed  and  soft-tinted  walls  of  the  room  after 
they  had  reached  it  and  Morrison  sat  resting 
a  while  before  retiring. 

"  What  direction,  Jerry,  is  home  from  here  ? 
Go  to  the  window  and  see." 

"The  hotel,  Boss?" 


278         OUT   OF    THE   ASHES 

"  No,  no — I  mean  Miss  Gertrude's  home. 
Can  you  see  it?  and  her  lamp ?  " 

'  Yes,"  said  Jerry,  pointing  to  the  right  as 
he  stood  at  the  open  window;  "  tharr  it  all  is — 
an'  the  lamp,  it's  a-burnin'.  Miss  Gertrue's 
lamp  allus  'minds  me  uv  the  lights  they  has 
'long  the  lake  side  f  er  the  boats  ter  cum  home 
by."  ... 

The  following  day  Morrison  sat  up  inter- 
mittently, but  the  next  he  kept  a-bed.  But 
the  physicians  spoke  hopefully  of  his  case,  and 
led  him  to  look  for  good  results  from  their 
treatment.  But  he  needed  rest  now,  they  said, 
— that  the  hospital  was  the  place  for  him,  and 
that  he  had  come  none  too  soon.  They  said 
he  must  stay,  contentedly,  until  he  had  fully 
recuperated;  that  the  convalescence  might  be 
long — that  the  running  down  in  health  was 
something  easily  and  quickly  done,  but  the 
ascending  was  often  slow  and  tedious. 

Curtman  admitted  the  logic,  and  for  a  while 


OUT  OF   THE   ASHES        279 

was  quiet  and  contented,  but  grew  restless 
when  the  days  dragged  into  weeks  and  he 
found  himself  no  better,  indeed,  worse. 

"  Curtman's  is  a  strange  case,"  said  Dr. 
Lawson  to  Dr.  Bass  one  day,  as  they  talked 
over  the  patients  in  the  office.  "  There  seems 
to  be  no  serious  malady,  no  organic  trouble, 
and  yet " 

"  He's  going  down." 

"  Yes,  he's  going  down." 

"  Our  probe  can't  reach  everything." 

"No;  indeed,  no.  And  this  is  one  of  the 
cases,  I'm  free  to  admit,  in  which  I  can  use 
neither  probe  nor  knife.  I  can't  see  the  wound 
it  made,  and  I  don't  know  where  to  cut  for 
the  bullet — but  it's  there." 

*  Yes,  as  you  say,  it's  there>  but  we  can't 
find  it.  He  has  worked  hard  in  building  up  his 
business,  he  has  spared  neither  time  nor 
strength.  He's  a  millionaire,  it's  true,  but  he 
has  paid  dearly  for  his  money,  if  it  has 


280        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

brought  him  here  to  end  his  days,  compar- 
atively a  young  man.  And  then,  too,  he  had 
trouble  with  his  wife.  You've  heard  of  that, 
of  course? " 

"  Yes,  I  know,  and  my  diagnosis  is,  that 
trouble  occasioned  this — that  that  was  the  bul- 
let, and  it  lodged  in  his  heart." 

"  That  may  be.  She  has  been  here  a  good 
deal  of  late,  in  fact,  ever  since  she  brought  the 
little  child  to  be  treated  for  spinal  disease. 
What  a  woman  she  is,  to  be  sure !  That  child 
is  from  a  home  of  poverty  and  our  poorest 
apartments  would  be  luxurious  to  him,  yet  she 
ordered  for  him  our  brightest  room  and  the 
best  of  everything,  and  pays  for  it." 

One  afternoon  Curtman  was  unusually 
restless,  and  for  no  apparent  reason ;  the  nurse 
had  not  been  lacking  in  her  attentions,  in  fact, 
that  day  had  been  more  than  usually  assidu- 
ous. She  had  beaten  and  placed  the  pillows  to 
suit  him  again  and  again;  had  raised  and 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         281 

lowered  the  blinds  at  his  bidding;  kept 
wide  open  the  door,  and  yet  he  was  in  no  wise 
quieted. 

"  I  think  I  will  give  you  a  powder,  Mr. 
Curtman,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  No,  no,  do  not  drug  me,"  he  pleaded;  "  let 
me  keep  my  mind  to  the  last — I  will  be  quiet," 
and  by  a  strong  effort  of  his  will,  he  straight- 
ened himself  on  his  couch  and  lay  with  his  eyes 
closed,  as  still  as  if  asleep. 

Presently  there  were  voices  in  the  hall  at  the 
farther  end. 

"  Who  is  that  in  the  haU? "  he  asked.  "  I 
hear  a  woman's  voice.  Look;  see  who  it  is  and 
tell  me." 

"  I  see  one  of  the  nurses  and  a — visitor,"  she 
reported,  after  a  hasty  glance  at  the  approach- 
ing figures. 

"Who  is  the  visitor?"  he  asked,  leaning 
upon  his  elbow  and  looking  intently  at  the 
nurse.  "  I  thought  I  knew  the  voice 


282        OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

The  nurse  hesitated;  she  knew  Mr.  Curtman 
had  been  divorced  from  his  wife. 

He  fastened  his  eyes  on  the  strip  of  hall  his 
open  door  revealed.  In  another  instant  Ger- 
trude, and  the  woman  with  whom  she  was  talk- 
ing were  passing. 

"Gertrude!"  he  called. 

His  voice  was  weak.  She  was  not  sure,  but 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  Morrison  call- 
ing her. 

"  Gertrude— Gertrude! " 

This  time  she  was  sure.  The  blood  came  in 
a  tide  to  her  cheeks. 

"  I  hear  Mr.  Curtman  calling  me,"  she  said. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"  In  the  room  you  have  just  passed,"  said 
the  nurse. 

She  turned  back  and  entered. 

"  Oh,  Gertrude,  Gertrude ! "  he  cried,  hold- 
ing out  to  her  his  hands.  '  You  won't  mind 
coming  to  me  now — now  that  I  am  dying !  It 


OUT   OF    THE   ASHES         283 

will  be  easier  to  die  if  I  know  that  you  have  for- 
given me — could  you  forgive  me? " 

"  I  have  long  ago  forgiven  you,"  she  said, 
leaning  over  "and  laying  her  hand  on  his  brow. 

He  caught  it  in  his  and  pressed  it  hungrily 
to  his  cheeks  and  lips. 

"  And  you  must  not  talk  of  dying,"  she  said, 
leaving  her  hand  to  his  caresses,  and  speaking 
brokenly  such  words  as  she  could  command. 
He  heard  the  sob  in  her  voice  and  felt  her  tears 
on  his  face. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  that  I  shall  not  die — not  now. 
Pray  God  that  I  may  live,  Gertrude — life  is 
so  sweet  now  that  I  have  your  forgiveness. 
And  may  be — some  day — the  love  you  had  for 
me — you  will  find  again." 

"  I  have  it  now — I  have  it  always  with  me. 
It  was  never  lost,"  and  leaning  down  she 
pressed  her  lips  to  his  in  a  long,  tender  kiss,  un- 
poisoned  by  a  single  bitter  memory. 

The  following  day  when  Gertrude  came, 


284         OUT   OF   THE  ASHES 

Morrison  handed  her  the  marriage  license.  He 
was  silent,  his  hand  trembled,  and  a  blush  of 
shame  crimsoned  his  cheeks  and  brow.  She 
read  it  unmoved;  her  face  was  calm  and  her 
voice  sweet. 

*  This  is  a  form  with  which  we  will  comply," 
she  said  simply,  "  a  mere  form,  for  we  were 
never  wwmarried." 

He  essayed  to  speak — his  voice  failed  him, 
but  he  clasped  tightly  the  hands  he  had  taken 
in  his,  and  looked  steadily  into  her  eyes  the 
pent-up  love  that  needed  no  words  for  expres- 
sion. 

"And  you  will  come  with  me,"  she  said; 
"  my  home  must  be  your  home." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  your  home  shall  be  my 
home,  '  and  thy  God  my  God,'  "  he  added  rev- 
erently. 

Morrison's  recovery  was  wonderfully  rapid. 
Dr.  Lawson,  in  speaking  of  it  to  Dr.  Bass, 
congratulated  him  on  his  acumen.  "  Your 


OUT  OF    THE   ASHES         285 

diagnosis  was  correct,  Bass,"  he  said,  "  Curt- 
man's  trouble  was  in  the  heart;  you  rightly 
located  that  bullet." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  located  it,"  he  answered,  "  but 
I  didn't  remove  it;  neither  you  nor  I  did 
that"  .  .  . 

Years  later,  while  Gertrude  was  walking 
through  the  Christians'  Orphanage,  in  which 
from  its  inception  she  had  taken  great  in- 
terest, and  to  whose  endowment  Curtman 
had  furnished  a  large  sum,  she  saw,  walking 
in  the  grounds,  accompanied  by  a  retinue  of 
children,  a  woman  whose  limping  gait  and 
frail,  bowed  form  fastened  her  attention. 

"That  woman,"  replied  the  superintendent 
in  answer  to  her  query,  "  is  a  very  useful  mem- 
ber of  our  force.  She  does  the  mending  for 
the  children  and  teaches  them  to  sew.  She  ac- 
cepts no  salary,  save  her  board  and  clothes,  and 
these  last,  you  see,  are  very  simple — just  those 
of  a  sick  nurse.  She  says  it  is  a  good  place  to 


286         OUT    OF    THE   ASHES 

live — among  the  children,  and  certainly  a  good 
place  to  die.  She  loves  the  children  and  they 
love  her,  and  we  shall  all  miss  her  when  she 
goes.  She  can't  live  long,  the  doctors  say;  she 
has  never  recovered  from  the  hurt  that  left  on 
her  cheek  that  scar." 

Gertrude  looked  again — there  was  some- 
thing familiar  in  the  face  and  figure.  Yes,  she 
had  rightly  surmised;  it  was  Helen  Landray. 


THE  END 


*  *  *  The  Belle 
of  the  Bluevrass 

J  o 

Country  *  *  * 


By  H.  D.  PITTMAN 


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— just  out 'of  school — their  ambitions,  their  love 
affairs,  their  courtship,  and  finally  their  re- 
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A  good  clean  book,  that  should  be  in  the 
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ANOTHER 

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BOSTON 


THE    C.   M.   CLARK    PUBLISHING   CO. 

OFFERS 

&  jBteto  Book  of  ttratel 


Author  of  "In  the  Shoe  String  Country" 


AROUND 
THE  WORLD 

IN  NINETY 
DAYS 


350  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  PHOTOS 
TAKEN  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 

PRICE     *     $3.50     *     NET 


No  such  book  of  travel  has  been  issued  since  STAN- 
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land  belonging  to  this  country  <L  An  unusual  chat  with 
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TEEMING     WITH     LIFE     AND     ACTION 


Greatest  of  All  Country  Novels 

Quincy  Adams 
Sawyer 

BY 

CHARLES  FELTON  PIDGIN 

THE    BEST 

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published     and    IT    IS    STILL    SELLING 


A  Simple  Tale  of  Country  Life 


It  is  full  of  homely  human  interest-— there  is  a  wealth 

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Those  who  have  Read  it  will  want  their 
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IT  IS  KNOWN  AND  READ  IN 
EVERY  HOME  IN  THE    LAND 


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AN     INDIAN     ROMANCE 

Lords  of  the  Soil 

BY 

LYDIA  A.   JOCELYN  AND  NATHAN  J.   CUFFEE 


One  of  the   Most  Fascinating  Stories  published   since 
the    days    of  J.    Fenimore    Cooper. 

"A   HIAWATHA  IN    PROSE." 

Boston  Herald,    Sept.  idth,  1905 


"  The  effort  to  preserve  truthfully  the  atmosphere  of  time  has 
been  altogether  successful.  The  story  is  full  of  picturesque  charm, 
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the  story  which  abounds  in  romantic  incidents." 

— Pittiburg  Post,  Oct.  9, 


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The  C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  CO. 
BOSTON 


THAT     MERRY    BOOR 

[  1 

The 

Man  from 
Maine 


By 
CARLOS  GRIFFITH 


The  story  is  of  a  quaint  old  "Down  East"  blacksmith 
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are  a  half-dozen  hearty  laughs  on  every  page  and  255 
pages  —  that  makes 

1530  Laughs  in  the  Book 

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=====  THE  ======= 

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A  ROMANCE    OF    LOFE    AND    ADVENTURE 
By   CHARLES   S.    COOM 


MR.  COOM  HAS  WRITTEN  OF  CLEVER,  LOVABLE  PEOPLE 
SUCH  AS  WE  ALL  KNOW  IN  EVERY  DAY  LIFE     &     & 

C.  TEN  Full- Page 
Illustrations  with 
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C,  380  Pages  of  most  C.  Bound    in    Silk 

interesting     reading  Cloth    stamped    in 

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it  is  the  climax  of 
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RETAIL   PRICE 


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C.    M.    Clark    Publishing    Co.,    Inc. 
211  Tremont  St.  Boston,  Mass. 


A   LIST   OF 

SUCCESSFUL  BOOKS 

ISSUED   BY 

THE  C.  M.  CLARK   PUBLISHING  Co. 

BOSTON,  MASS. 


THE  BELLE  OF  THE  BLUE 
GRASS  COUNTRY 

By  H.  D.  Pittman 

MAID  OF  THE  MOHAWK 
By  Frederick  A.  Ray 

SIGNAL  LIGHTS 

By  Louise  M.  Hopkins 

THE  UNTAMED    PHILOSO- 
PHER 

By  Frank  W.  Hastings 

FOUR  GIRLS 

By  Miss  Mary  Rodney 

OUT  OF  THE  ASHES 

By  Harney  Rennolds 

THE  KENTUCKIAN 

By  James  Ball  Naylor 

IN     THE    SHOE    STRING 
COUNTRY 

By  Frederick  Cbamberlin 

AROUND  THE    WORLD    IN 
NINETY  DAYS 

By  Frederick  Chamberlin 

THE  MAN  FROM  MAINE 
By  Frank  Carlos  Griffith 

JAY  GOULD  HARMON 

By  George  Selwyn  Kimball 

PINEY  HOME 

By  George  S.  Kimball 

LORDS  OF  THE  SOIL 

By  Lydia  A.  Jocelyn  and 

Nathan  J.  Cuffee 


QUINCY  ADAMS  SAWYER 
By  Charles  Felton  Pidgin 

THE     BARONET     RAG- 
PICKER 

By  Charles  S.  Coom 

ANDE   T RE  MB  AT  H 

By  Matt.  Stan.  Kemp 

MARJIE    OF   THE  LOWER 
RANCH 

By  Miss  Frances  Parker 

HOPE  HATHAWAY 

By  Miss  Frances  Parker 

TITO 

By  William  Henry  Carson 

LOVE  STORIES  FROM  REAL 
LIFE 

By  Mildred  Champagne 

HESTER  BLAIR 

By  William  Henry  Carson 

MISS  PETTICOATS 

By  Dwight  Tilton 

ON  S-1TAN'S  MOUNT 

By  Dwight  Tilton 

MY  LADY  LAUGHTER 

By  Dwight  Tilton 

BLENNERHASSE  TT 

By  Charles  Felton  Pidgin 

THE  CLIMAX 

By  Charles  Felton  Pidgin 


Price,  $1.50  Each 

AT     ALL     BOOKSELLERS     OR     SENT     PREPAID     BY 
THE  C.  M.  CLARK  PUBLISHING  CO.,  BOSTON 


University  of  California 

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405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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